


Seven Minutes in Heaven

by halfsweet



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Blood, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Suicide Attempt, Teen Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 23:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: There's something different about Patrick after their summer break.





	Seven Minutes in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_Dream_In_Electric_Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Dream_In_Electric_Blue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Tutor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328564) by [I_Dream_In_Electric_Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Dream_In_Electric_Blue/pseuds/I_Dream_In_Electric_Blue). 



> i did a lot of research on this and i can only hope i got it right. i'm honestly so in love with this fic and i've spent quite a chunk of time on it. like a couple of months? it's definitely right there on my fav fics to write! although i do wish i have more time to write it longer, like 40k-ish. then again, this was originally supposed to be 8-10k ://
> 
> reminder: please read the tags before reading the fic. and if, at any point in the fic, you start to feel uncomfortable, don't hesitate to close the tab. this isn't me being snarky or sarcastic, but honestly tho. do not hesitate to close the tab.
> 
> also! do tell me if i miss any tags!

He adjusts the glasses on his face as he stands in front of the house that he’s been to so many times before that it might as well be his second home. Weekday mornings are normal for him to go to the Way-Wentz residence—or as he likes to call it, the W-squared residence—before he heads to school.

In fact, it’s pretty rare for him to not make a stop there.

It’s an exciting day today, partly because it’s the first day of school. The other part is because he gets to see his best friend again after summer break. Even though they live near each other, both of them had busy schedules the entire summer. He had joined a lot of church programs, on top of having choir practice almost everyday and performance almost every week, and Patrick was nowhere to be found.

He did feel a little jealous, though. Mr Wentz and Mr Way always bring Patrick for awesome and fun vacations.

He raises his knuckles, ready to knock on the door when the door is yanked open— and storms out his red-faced best friend with a ticked off expression. His hand lowers as a confused expression takes over his features. “Patrick? What’s wrong?”

Patrick stomps past him without answering his question. Clueless, he trails behind Patrick to catch up to him, but not before seeing Mr Wentz and Mr Way standing by the doorway, looking all forlorn at their son. When Mr Wentz catches his gaze, he gives him a small grin and a wave before falling into step next to Patrick, who spits out something on the ground.

He glances to see what it is—a pill?—before turning to Patrick. “What is that?”

Patrick shrugs as they continue walking. “Vitamin. My dads are really health-conscious.”

As Patrick walks in front of him, he eyes the white pill on the grass. Weird. Even his parents stop making him eat vitamins since he was ten.

Maybe Patrick’s parents are a couple of health freaks.

“So—” he adjusts the glasses on his nose, “—what did you do over the summer?”

Patrick makes a non-committal hum. “Boring. My dads decided to take me out for a picnic every week. It was horrible.”

Horrible? It sounds fun. What parents would go out of the way to plan picnics or any other family event _every week?_ He’d do anything to be in Patrick’s shoes. His friend is living the best life, not that his own life isn’t good.

“Maybe I can ask my parents to plan one.” He ponders. His parents would probably agree with it. “Then, we can have picnics together. What do you say?”

He tilts his head when Patrick huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, and he frowns at the reaction he gets from his friend. Did he say something wrong? “What’s so funny?”

Patrick looks at him, one eyebrow raised in an amused smirk. “Trust me. Your picnic and my picnic are two different things.”

Different? Based on what? Food? Activity? How can two picnics be any different?

He shakes the matter off when Patrick has already walked ahead of him and catches up to him. “Still. It would be nice if we can go on a picnic together.”

“Just us two?”

Heat rushes up to his cheeks at Patrick’s teasing tone. Fumbling with his glasses, he stutters to correct himself. “I mean— um, we can— we can go with our parents. Besides, we can’t drive yet, so…”

His mouth snaps shut, embarrassed when Patrick flicks his gaze towards him, chuckling and tugging at his hand. “You’re really cute when you’re nervous.”

He looks down at the pavement, a bashful smile spreading on his face as his heart feels like it’s on cloud nine. Patrick says that a lot, and it never fails to make butterflies flutter in his stomach.

“Wanna go to the record shop today?”

Patrick’s voice pulls him back to reality, and he regains his composure before replying him. “I- I guess? But not too long because I have to go to—”

“Or maybe the playground? We haven’t been there in a while. Oh! What if we go to the—”  

“...church.” He finishes his sentence as he stares at Patrick, who continues to chitter, more so to himself. His body relaxes as he enjoys the morning breeze ruffling his hair and Patrick’s voice filling his ears.

It’s a nice start to a new school year.

-

School has been nice so far; he misses all his friends and classmates and some of the teachers. Since the school year is just beginning, there aren’t that much homework to do, but that’s not to say that the teachers won’t suddenly drop them all at once next week.

But at least he understands all the subjects so far. Hopefully that gives him a head start when they start getting homework or projects.

Two weeks in, he finds himself walking to school alone after Patrick texted him that Mr Wentz is sending him to school. The walk to school isn’t that far; it’s about 15 minutes by foot, and judging from the time he went out that morning, he’d have plenty of time to spare when he arrives school.

Once he steps into school ground, a car stops by him. He pauses in his step, his face lighting up with a smile when he sees the familiar car. Patrick comes out of the car, smiling when their eyes meet, but his smile drops when Patrick ducks back inside the car, scowling and mumbling at whatever Mr Wentz is saying.

He jumps when Patrick slams the car door shut before making his way around the car towards him, and the window rolls down to reveal Mr Wentz. Mr Wentz seems worried judging from the creases on his forehead, and he wonders what might have cause him to be that worried. Work problems?

“Bye, sweetie.” Mr Wentz waves, but Patrick doesn’t even glance in his direction. Huh. Weird, considering Patrick always waves back. Come to think of it, Patrick has always been close with his parents. Did something happen between them over the summer? “I’ll pick you up after school, okay?”

Again, Patrick doesn’t reply. When he turns to look at Mr Wentz, he sees the crestfallen look on Mr Wentz’s face. Feeling pity for Mr Wentz, he offers him a smile and a wave, and Mr Wentz waves back at him, albeit half-heartedly.

Once Mr Wentz leaves, he jogs to catch up to Patrick, who is already halfway to the entrance. “Bad day with your dad?”

“Sorta.” Patrick shrugs as he heaves his bag up his shoulder, the sleeves of shirt riding up a little. “I just wish they’d leave me alone so I can have a peaceful morning.”

He fixes his eyes on Patrick’s wrist where there’s a ring of bruises around it. His brows furrow. Those bruises look recent. “What’s with the bruises?”

“Nothing.” Patrick mutters as he pulls his sleeves down and walks faster down the hallway to his locker.

He frowns, eyes still lingering on the purplish rings peeking just below Patrick’s sleeves. Did Patrick’s parents do that to him?

He shakes his head to get rid of the impossible and horrendous thoughts out. No, of course they didn’t. Mr Wentz and Mr Way love Patrick. They wouldn’t even raise their voices, let alone their hands, on him.

So, what causes the bruise? And why is Patrick acting cold towards Mr Wentz all of a sudden?

-

In class, Patrick returns back to his normal self— the very one that he’s known since they were in middle school. All the previous thoughts and worries about Patrick’s family troubles go out the window as Patrick laughs at a joke one of their friends tell them.

He pushes down the butterflies in his stomach when Patrick leans against him as they continue to listen to their friend’s story. Patrick is absorbed in the story, his eyes widening and sparkling in excitement, and he can’t help the one-beat skip his heart does in his chest as he stares at his friend: from Patrick’s soft hair that shines in the daylight to the tiny crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes when he chortles and down to the fingers that are wrapped around a can of soda and the hand that rests on his thigh.

His hand twitches, resisting the urge to place it on top of Patrick’s. Would it be weird? It’s not weird to hold your best friend’s hand, right? It’s normal.

...right?

“Let’s go to the arcade after school today.” Patrick suggests to their friends, to which he receives an unanimous cries of _“yes!”_. He’s thinking of rejecting the invite, especially when he has to help out at the church right after school, but when he sees the hopeful blue in Patrick’s eyes looking up at him, his resolve melts away, and he finds himself smiling and nodding.

He’s been to church way too many times over the summer anyway. He rarely got to spend time with Patrick during the holidays, and he’s gonna make up for it.

-

Friday nights are common, almost a ritual, for one of them to sleep at each other’s place for the weekend. As soon as the final bell rings on Friday, Patrick follows him home, all smiles and chatters.

He loves the weekend. He loves that they get to spend time together, playing video games or doing homework or just lazing around on the bed or on the floor. His parents and siblings are used to having Patrick around that they already consider Patrick as part of their family, and he’s sure that Patrick’s parents feel the same way about him.

They spend the rest of Friday evening walking his dog around the neighbourhood. By night, after dinner, he puts on some music as he pulls out his math textbook. While he’s doing his homework, he spots Patrick playing with a small ball in his hands, throwing it up in the air and catching it.

“Don’t you have homework to do?” He pushes his glasses up as he flips the book open to the assigned page. “Math is due on Monday, you know.”

“Do you think my dads will get me a puppy? I’ve always wanted one.”

He lets out a quiet sigh. Talking to Patrick can be difficult sometimes. He lost count of how many times Patrick had changed the subject mid-conversation. Not even mid-conversation, he’d change it _before_ they even had the conversation. “I don’t know. Maybe? Have you asked—”

“What dog should I get? A husky? Pomeranian? I like pomeranians. They’re small but they’re so energetic and—”

He smiles. Pomeranian. Suits Patrick just fine.

“—dads after picnic next week? I hate picnics but my dads always buy me whatever I want after that so maybe I’ll ask them then. Or do you think I should get a lizard instead? Lizards are pretty cool. Or maybe a cat and then—”

“You’re allergic to cats.”

“—we can have playdates together! You know what pets we should get? Turtles. Or birds. I think they’re pretty easy to—”

As much as he loves listening to Patrick and spending time with him, he has to tune him out so he can finish his math homework. He knows they—him, more specifically—won’t get much work done for the rest of the weekend since Patrick would probably want to do something else. He figures he’d better finish all of his homework and assignments that are due on Monday before Patrick drags him into one of his many adventures.

By the time he’s finished his homework, he lies on his bed and takes of his glasses, closing his eyes and intending to take a small break. Patrick’s continuous chatterings lull him to sleep, and when he wakes up, the room is quiet and dark, save for the desk lamp.

“Patrick?” He rubs his eyes before putting on his glasses. His vision takes a few seconds to become clear again, and when it does, Patrick is sitting by his desk with his shoulders hunched. “What are you doing up? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

“Can’t sleep.” Patrick answers without even glancing in his direction. “So I did our art project and finished it but then I got bored so I—”

Wait— Patrick _what?_ He sits up from his bed and scrambles to where Patrick is sitting. “Y- you finished the art project all by yourself?”

“Yeah, and then I did our history project—”  

He frowns, taking in the drawing that Patrick did himself. It’s pretty good, Patrick’s always been good at art and music, but… “It’s supposed to be a _partner_ project, so you’re supposed to do it with your _partner._ Why didn’t you wake me up? We could have done this together.”

Patrick scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s like you didn’t even listen to a word I said. I told you I couldn’t sleep. Besides, I was bored. What was I supposed to do?”

“Wake me up so we can do it _together.”_ He switches on the fluorescent light and grabs another chair to sit beside Patrick. “I don’t want to get easy grades without doing anything.”

“Oh, would you relax?” Patrick lifts his arms above his head as he stretches his body, letting out a quiet groan in the process. “You helped to give ideas. Does that make you feel better?”

“No.” He frowns as he leans in to look at what Patrick’s currently doing. It’s another assignment—history—that they’re supposed to do with a partner. Again, Patrick’s doing it by himself, the laptop showing Word that’s already 2 pages in. “Why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll—”

“Hey, let’s go for laser tag after I finish this. What do you say?”

“After _we_ finish this.” He corrects Patrick. “And seeing that you’re already halfway done and it’s just 4 a.m, i doubt the place will be open.”

“Fine. How about a run, _then_ we go for laser tag?”

“You have asthma.” He points out with a stifled yawn. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Patrick is usually a relatively sedentary person, but there are moments when he becomes hyper and active that he forgets about his health, and he has to reel Patrick back in before anything bad happens. “How about some sleep, then we go for laser tag at 10?”

“I told you I’m not sleepy.”

Sighing, he brings the laptop and the textbook towards him. If Patrick is adamant to finish their school assignment that is due _next two weeks,_ then he’ll finish it. “Go to sleep, Patrick. I got this.”

“ _You_ go to sleep.” Patrick argues as he takes back the laptop from him. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

He turns to face Patrick, pausing and doing a second take at Patrick’s bloodshot eyes. The frown on his face changes into a worried one. “Patrick,” he begins with a soft voice, “please go to sleep.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Patrick, just a quick n—”

“No!”

He closes his mouth when Patrick snaps, not wanting to rile him up further.

“I don’t need sleep! I’m not tired! _I’m fine!_ ” Patrick slams his hands on the desk as he stands up, the chair falling over from the force. The room goes silent and tense, only the sound of Patrick’s heavy breathing and his own heartbeat filling the air.

He sits still in his chair, afraid that one slight move will make Patrick explode again. Now, this—   _this_ is the first time that it has happened. He’s never seen Patrick lose his temper before. Tentatively, he places his hand on Patrick’s arm to calm him down and finds that Patrick’s body is tense. “Okay, you don’t have to go to sleep if you don’t want to, but can you at least take a break from doing homework? None of these are due for at least another week.”

When Patrick heaves out a sigh, it’s as if the atmosphere goes back to how it was before. “Yeah, fine, whatever.” Patrick runs his fingers through his hair before turning around to sit on the bed, hand reaching over for the nightstand drawer to pull his video game console out. “I’m playing your saved game.”

“Don’t let my character die. I spent the entire summer just to get where I am now.”

Patrick laughs. “If anything’s gonna die, it won’t be your character, I promise.”

-

The next Friday, Patrick comes to his house with a backpack that is, possibly, larger than his torso. His eyes bulk at the sigh of it as his jaw drops. “That is a lot of stuff.”

Patrick shrugs as he strolls inside, greeting his mother and his brother as they make their way up to his bedroom. “Enough to last me a couple of days and more.”

His face lights up in excitement. “You’re staying here until Sunday?”

“Sort of.” Patrick drops the bag on the floor once they reach the bedroom, the impact making a

solid thump against the floor. “I have to go somewhere else after.”

He blinks. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet.” Patrick shrugs.

There’s a weird feeling in his guts that tells him something feels off, but pays no heed to it. He’s got a more pressing matter on hand. “My brother just bought me a new game. Wanna play it?”

Patrick’s face lights up with a grin. “Do you even have to ask?”

-

The weekend has been some of his greatest memories yet. As a matter of fact, every second spent with Patrick is the greatest memory. Come Monday, they walk to school together, and even though his first class doesn’t have Patrick in it, it’s still a good day.

Until the last bell for the day rings and all students pile out from the entrance.

Patrick had asked him before if he could stay for another night, and he didn’t let Patrick finish his sentence as he’s already agreeing to Patrick’s request. So, now, as they laugh on their way back home, a car pulls up beside them.

He tenses, at first, but when the window rolls down, his body relaxes at the familiar faces. “Mr Wentz, Mr Way. Where are you g—”

He stops himself as the weird feeling from the other day returns in his guts. What’s happening? Why do Mr Wentz and Mr Way look serious?

“Patrick, get in the car.”

Wait. What’s going on?

Patrick clutches the back of his shirt, and he tilts his head to look at him. Something’s definitely not right. Patrick looks pale, and his eyes widen like they just saw a ghost.

“Patrick.” Mr Way frowns from the passenger seat. “Get in the car so we can go home.”

Before he can even blink, Patrick lets go of his shirt and runs away from them. He feels as if his feet were stuck to the ground, and he can’t do anything but watch Mr Wentz and Mr Way get out of their car and chase after Patrick.

“I don’t want to go home!” Patrick yells at his parents and fights against their grips before twisting around to face him with pleading eyes, “Brendon, please— Brendon— you have to help me. I don’t want to go back.”

Hearing and watching Patrick begging like this, terrified and desperate, it breaks his heart in pieces. He’s at lost at what he’s supposed to do. Of _course_ he would love to help Patrick out, but not… not when it comes to him _running away_ from home. His own _family_.

“Patrick, I— I’m sorry.” He eventually finds the courage to muster out just as Mr Way manages to drag Patrick to their car, Patrick looking at him full of… full of betrayal. Regret.

His heart drops to his stomach at the look. Is he a bad friend? Is he a bad _person_ for not helping his friend who is trying to run away from his home?

Patrick’s face is red as they continue to stare at each other, one of helpless and the other of fury. “I thought you’re my friend.”

The words stab him in his chest, “Patrick, I really am—”

But Patrick already shakes his head and gets into the car, not sparing him another glance nor a word as Mr Way and Mr Wentz follow suit.

“—sorry…”

-

Patrick hasn’t spoken a single word to him since that day. Not a single text is replied. His heart grows heavier and heavier with each second that Patrick doesn’t talk to him. He knows Patrick is still angry at him, but surely his friend can’t stay angry that long.

When Patrick returns back to school, he closes his locker shut and chases after Patrick through the crowd. Mutters and mumbles of _“sorry”s_ and _“excuse me”s_ leave his mouth as he makes sure Patrick is still in his line of sight. Patrick eventually stops by his locker, and he stands just a few feet away from his friend as his heart pounds at a racing speed in his chest.

He gulps. Since when did he start to feel nervous about talking to his best friend?

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, he steps forward until he’s standing behind Patrick, then taps him on the shoulder. When Patrick cocks his head, he gives him a nervous smile as the butterflies in his stomach flutter violently. “Uh, h- hi. Morning.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow—the scarred one, very much like his own—before turning back to his locker without saying anything. His gaze drops to his feet as his heart begins to feel heavy, like an anchor of despair tugging it down to the other side of the earth.

They’ve never fought like this before, and he never realizes just how much it hurts when Patrick flat out ignores him. As if he doesn’t exist.

He taps on Patrick’s shoulder again, the butterflies returning full force. “Hey, I’m sorry about the other day.”

“Fuck off, Brendon.”

Slightly hurt and disappointed by the response that he gets, he moves to stand beside the locker so he can look at Patrick. “Patrick, please, I’m really sorry.”

“You’re really not.” Patrick snorts, not sparing even a single glance in his direction as he continues to take out books for his classes. “You don’t even mean it.”

“I do.” He places his hand on Patrick’s that’s resting on the door of the locker, and he feels a lump in his throat when Patrick removes his hand the second their hands come in contact. “Patrick, I was just looking out for my friend.”

Patrick turns to him with narrowed eyes and hardened face, hissing. “ _Friends_ help each other no matter what, Brendon. You’re not a friend. You’re just a shitty person.”

He pales; Patrick’s words sending a thousand knives straight through his chest. Did Patrick really mean that? He couldn’t really mean that… could he?

“I’m not a shitty person,” he says, masking his hurt despite the shakiness in his voice, “Patrick, look, I meant it. I’m sorry I didn’t help you, but that’s because I don’t want to come between you and your parents.”

“You’re _my_ friend, not my parents’ friend.”

His chest feels light again, as if the knife wounds were all healed and leaving no scars behind, and he can’t help the smile that’s growing on his face. “I’m your friend again?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Patrick scoffs as he slams his locker shut. “You _were_ my friend.”

The four words jerk him back down to earth like a meteor crash. Patrick walks away from him, crushing his heart with every step he takes.

-

He walks around the cafeteria to find an empty seat. Under normal circumstances, he would sit with Patrick together, but considering what happened between them…

Should he try to talk to Patrick again? Maybe Patrick’s already changed his mind and forgiven him. It’s been a few days since the incident, plus the weekend is maybe enough time for Patrick to cool down.

He sits on the first empty seat he finds. The other students at the same table seem to have no problem with him sitting there, so he picks up his sandwich and unwraps it. His eyes glance around the cafeteria, and that’s when a familiar figure catches his attention.

Sitting at a few tables away, Patrick is laughing as he sits in Dallon’s lap, one arm thrown around Dallon’s shoulders as Dallon holds him by the waist. Dallon’s hand is just sitting there, still and harmless on Patrick’s waist, but it stirs up a storm inside him. Hot red surges in his veins, all the way from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, and his fingers clench around his sandwich.

Patrick leans further into Dallon, looping another arm around Dallon’s neck and nuzzling his neck.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but the next thing he knows, he’s already standing up and stalking towards them, his chest feeling as if it were on fire. Patrick and Dallon still have yet to notice him, what with Patrick almost burying his face in Dallon’s neck and Dallon doing nothing but pulling him closer and encouraging him.

That is supposed to be him. Whenever Patrick is in his touchy mood, Patrick would always find him and hang all over him, and he never complained about it. It’s always been like that since their freshman year. Even their friends—and nearly everyone in their grade—know that there’s no one Patrick would go to but him.

Clearly everyone’s wrong, because it seems like Patrick easily found someone else to be handsy with.

He stops at their table and clears his throat, making Patrick and Dallon look at him. “Can I talk to you? Alone?”

His eyes are on Patrick the entire time, not glancing to Dallon for even a second. Patrick’s arms are still around Dallon when he speaks. “I don’t want to move.”

Dallon must have sensed tension between them, because he removes himself from Patrick and pats Patrick on the shoulder, smiling. “It’s okay, I’ll just move myself.” Dallon lifts Patrick up before sliding to the side to stand up. He grabs his bag and turns to him next. “See you guys in class.”

Once Dallon is out of sight, he takes a seat across Patrick, who has his chin propped up in his palm as his finger drums away on the table. “What do you want, Brendon?”

Now that they’re alone, save for the other kids who are sitting a few feet away at the same table as them, all his previous courage and guts melt away and shrink until they're almost non-existent. He gulps and plays with his fingers— anything to avoid looking directly at Patrick. Why did he come here again?

“Um, are— are you angry at—”

“Furious.” Patrick corrects with a deadpanned expression. “I’m _furious_ at you.”

Okay. That clears everything up. Now what is he supposed to say to that? Patrick didn't accept his apologies then, so why would he accept another one now?

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I'm sorry. Can we be friends again?”

“I don't know. Are you going to be a shitty person again?”

“No!” He squawks and looks up at Patrick, who has a ticked expression on his face. “Patrick, I'm not that person, I promise!”

“I don't have time for this.” Patrick mutters as he reaches down to get his bag and sling it over his shoulder. When Patrick stands up to leave, he follows suit, catching up to Patrick's fast pace.

“Patrick.” He calls his friend and reaches for his wrist to catch his attention. “Patrick, please talk to me.”

“Why should I? You didn't listen to me last time.”

“That was between you and your family!” He takes one large stride and stands in front of Patrick, stopping him. “I'm not going to come between you guys.”

Patrick's eyes narrow into a glare, but he stands his ground. “Like I said, you're _my_ friend, not my _family's_ friend. Now, move.”

“No.” He doesn't know where the sudden bravery comes from, but he hopes that it lasts long enough until Patrick forgives him. “I don't want you to make a mistake. Patrick, we're just _teens._ Where are you going to go if you ran away?”

“ _Not_ back to my parents.” Patrick hisses, getting in his face. “Thanks to _you_ , I'm grounded. Now, move before I kick your ass right here where everyone can see.”

He steps aside and watches Patrick disappear in the crowd of students with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat.

-

10 p.m. on a Friday night has never been this boring and dull without Patrick. The incident earlier at school is still fresh in his mind even after school session is over. It makes his stomach twist and turn for every second Patrick ignores him. They’ve been friends for so long, there isn’t even a single time where Patrick has gotten furious at him to the point he cuts off their friendship.

He pulls his knees to his chest and lets out a soft, pitiful whine. Maybe Patrick’s right. Maybe he is a shitty person.

But maybe he can turn it around. If Patrick thinks he wouldn’t go against his principle to help his friend, then he’s gonna show him.

He gets off his bed and changes into his jeans. He goes to grab his jacket and runs out of his room, but not before stopping by his desk and rummaging through his drawer for something that he has kept a while. After finding the item and letting out a quiet victory _‘yes!’_ , he stashes it into his bag and sneaks downstairs to make sure his parents don’t wake up.

“Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

He pales at the voice and at getting caught, then turns around, mustering the most innocent and cutest smile as he can. “H- hey. I was, um, going to the kitchen?”

His brother raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, scrutinizing him up and down. “In jeans and with a backpack?”

Sweat begins to form at the back of his neck, and he squirms under his brother’s suspicious gaze. “Uh, yes?”

After a few seconds of staring at each other, his brother sighs and leans over to the coffee table to grab the car keys. “Where do you want to go? I’ll drive you.”

Unable to contain his excitement, he tackles his brother into a quick hug. “You’re the best.”

Even though his brother is snorting, he doesn’t miss the slight quirk of the lips on his brother’s face. “So, where am I taking you?”

“Patrick’s place.” He answers as he pulls away from his brother and skips to the door. “Hurry up! I don’t want mom and dad to know I’m sneaking out.”

“You’re not _technically_ sneaking out. I’m driving you.” His brother walks towards the door and to the car, and he closes the door behind them gently. “Besides, you got caught. Red-handed, at that. You’re terrible at it.”

He flushes, red rising to his cheek with a pout as he opens the door to the passenger’s seat. “Shut up. Just drive already.”

“So,” his brother says as he starts the engine, the impending conversation looming over him, “what’s up with you and Patrick?”

The blush on his face darkens, and he looks down at his lap, picking at his fingers out of nervousness. “Nothing’s up. I’m going to his place, aren’t I?”

His brother hums, car now pulled out of the driveway. “He usually follows you home every Friday, or you’d follow him back to his house after school. Why not today?”

Because he screwed up their friendship? Because he didn’t help a friend in need?

He hugs his bag to his chest, burying his face in it and sighing. “He’s mad at me. It’s my fault.”

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t being a good friend to him.” He mumbles, not wanting to give further explanation. He doesn’t want to dwell too much on what happened. He made a mistake, and now he’s going to redeem it.

His brother seems to understand that that’s the end of the topic, so he continues to drive, neither of them talking throughout the entire journey.

-

After his brother drops him in front of Patrick’s house, it’s nearing half past ten, but he’s sure that Patrick is still awake. His parents, on the other hand, he can only hope that they’re already asleep. He doesn’t want to get caught—for the second time—that night sneaking in.

He maneuvers around the house to where Patrick’s room is located. The house has a large tree that leads him straight to Patrick’s room, but the thing is—

He’s not really a fan of heights.

He stands under the tree, looking up at the branches and feeling his stomach flip in all directions. He can do this.

Spitting into his hands, he rubs his palms together before placing them flat on the bark of the tree, grimacing at the thought of dirt and germs or worms or bugs that might come into contact with his skin. He ignores the feeling and focuses on climbing up instead.

“Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.” He chants under his breath on his way up, fingers gripping on tight to the rough bark. He lets out a relieved sigh when a branch that bridges to Patrick’s room comes into his view, and he lifts his foot up to get on it. Once he’s safely sitting up on the branch, he tries to look into Patrick’s room through the window. It’s dark inside— nothing can be seen through the window.

He scoots closer to the end of the branch and knocks on the window, both hands gripping the windowsill in case the branch snaps. There’s no sound coming from inside, so he knocks again. His heart drops at the lack of response.

But it picks up again when the window opens, revealing Patrick in his shirt and pajama pants, eyes fresh like he hasn’t been sleeping before he got there. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh—” he licks his lips, “it’s tradition night, remember?”

When Patrick raises an eyebrow, he continues, “a- and I want to see you. I want to say I’m sorry for what I did. I was a bad friend to you.”

“So,” he clears his throat, heart pounding in nerves as Patrick continues to stay silent, and he dares himself to look up at Patrick, “will you forgive me? Can we be friends again?”

“Are you kidding me?” Patrick's tone sounds incredulous, and it makes his heart sink in dejection. Is that another no?

“You sneaked out of your house and into my room this late at night. You broke your rule for me, of _course_ I'll forgive you.” Patrick beams, taking both his hands in his and dragging him inside to the middle of the room. “You’re staying, right?”

It feels like his heart and soul just _soar_ the second Patrick smiles at him again. God, he never realizes just how much he misses his smile. “Uh, I guess? I’ll just tell my mom my brother drove me here after dinner.”

Patrick pulls him down until they’re both laying on the floor. He rolls over on his side and nudges Patrick. “Hey, uh, I’ve got something for you.”

He fishes for the CD in his backpack before handing it to Patrick, who turns the item around in his hand. “What is it?”

“Before summer, I remember you said there are nights where you couldn’t sleep, so,” he shrugs, shyness taking over him, “um, I made a mixtape—mix CD, I guess—to help you sleep.”

Before he can blink, he has an armful of Patrick pressed against his chest, and his cheeks heat up at the contact. “I’m guessing you like it?”

“Thanks, B.” Patrick whispers, and they lay that way until his heartbeat slows down to its normal pace. He doesn’t know if Patrick can hear how fast and how hard his heart is beating, but if Patrick can, he’s glad that Patrick doesn’t mention anything about it.

“Let me get my laptop so we can listen together.” Patrick moves to grab his laptop on the bed, then lies down beside him as he turns it on. He stares at the ceiling, waiting for Patrick to put the CD into the drive.

The first note of _Reason To Believe_ by Carpenters begins to play, echoed with Patrick’s quiet sigh. “This feels nice. I miss this.”

He hums in agreement. Everything feels peaceful and light. “I miss this too. It feels like—”

“I had sex with Dallon.”

He whips his head in disbelief to look at Patrick. “You _what?”_

Patrick is staring up at the ceiling, but he nods as his face brightens with a smile. “Last week. Dallon was so nice and good and he seemed like he knew what he was doing and—”

Everything Patrick says fall onto deaf ears as his brain is still trying to digest the first part. Patrick had _sex?_ With Dallon? Dallon Weekes, of all people in the school? In their grade? Was that why they’re so close to each other lately?

And last week? Wasn’t that around the time when Patrick decided that they’re not friends? When Patrick decided to run away from home?

Questions upon questions barrell through his mind at a hundred miles an hour. He has so many questions to ask Patrick, but Patrick is still going on and on and on about Dallon and the sex they had.

“—and then we did it again when we went to the cinema and—”

The cinema? Were they on a date? But isn’t Patrick grounded?

Did he sneak out just to meet Dallon?

His stomach sinks to his feet. Since when has Patrick become so reckless? This isn’t like the Patrick he knows. The Patrick he knows never tries to run away from home. The Patrick he knows doesn’t have random sex. The Patrick he knows doesn’t lie to his parents or sneak out to go on a date and have sex.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the music playing so he doesn’t have to listen to Patrick’s story. He’s happy that Patrick’s talking to him again, but he absolutely does _not_ want to hear about Patrick having sex or how he lost his virginity or even how good Dallon is.

Somewhere between one song and the next, he finds himself falling asleep in the middle of Patrick’s story. When he wakes up, his playlist is playing softly in the background still. Patrick is lying on his chest, curling and dozing off.

A smile spreads on his face; now _this_ is the Patrick he knows: cuddly and composed.

-

Just because they’re friends again doesn’t mean things have return to normal. There’s something different about Patrick. There’s always been something different about Patrick—he’s an angel among everyone’s presence, really—but lately, Patrick seems off.

He’s in the middle of AP history when he raises his hand, requesting to go to the toilet. After Mr James gives him the pass and he steps out the classroom, he doesn’t waste another second running to the nearest toilet.

The toilet is empty, which he is thankful for, and he heads to one of the urinals and unzips his jeans. He lets out a sigh; he thought he could hold it in until class is over, but he’s had tea for breakfast and now he feels sorry for his kidney and bladder.

Being the only one in the toilet, he had expected for it to be quiet. When there’s a muffled groan coming from one of the cubicles, he almost jumps out of his skin. Is there a ghost inside?

He waits and strains his ears to hear more, curious to know if what he heard was just his imagination or not. His ears pick up nothing, so he returns back to his business. If it really was a ghost, maybe it wouldn’t disturb him if he—

The same groan echoes throughout the toilet, followed by another distinct one, but muffled. He hastily zips his jeans up, terror filling him. What if there are _two_ ghosts instead of one? What if they float through the door and possess him? Oh god, what if they—

The door to the cubicle unlocks, and out comes two flushed and giggling individuals he knows too well. “Patrick? Dallon?”

They turn to him, Dallon with a smile and Patrick with a dazed look in his eyes. “Brendon!”

He arches an eyebrow at them as Patrick walks to the sink to wash his face and rinse his mouth. “What were you two doing together in the cubicle?”

“What were _you_ doing?” Patrick shoots back, which makes him frown in confusion. What else would he be doing in the toilet?

“Peeing?” He answers and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

The sound of Dallon’s chuckle reverberate against the tiled floor, and from the reflection in the mirror, Dallon is turning Patrick around and leaning down to kiss him. Once. Twice. Three times.

Four times, followed by a low moan.

He swallows and keeps his gaze down on his hands under the running water, doing his best to block out the sounds coming from Patrick and the strange warmth between his legs. Are they a couple? If they are, since when? Why didn’t Patrick tell him about it?

“See you sixth period?”

Patrick hums, a teasing smile present on his face as he fingers at Dallon’s collar. “Same place. I’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll try not to make you wait too long.” Dallon chuckles as he leans in for another kiss. “See you soon.”

After Dallon leaves, it’s only both of them in the toilet. He closes the tap and turns to Patrick. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

A frown crosses his face at Patrick’s nonchalant reaction. How can Patrick be so indifferent with what he just did with Dallon? He would, at least, appreciate it if Patrick came out to him with a, _“hey, guess what? Dallon and I are dating now.”_

He would be a little heartbroken, but he would still be happy for his friend. Sighing, he pats his hands on his pants and turns around to return to his class. “Nothing. See you in class later.”

-

He can tell Health class is going to be fun, especially when they walk to see Mrs Williams sitting by her desk with a stack of paper instead of books. That can only mean two things.

A class-long discussion and no homework!

Excited whispers are exchanged among one another. He looks to Patrick, who’s looking just as thrilled as them. After everyone takes their seats, he shoots Patrick a grin, to which he gets one in return. If there’s a discussion, Mrs williams would usually divide them into partners or groups of three or four, and both him and Patrick have made a pact since their freshman year to always be each other’s partners and in the same group whenever there’s an assignment.

And Health class isn’t any different.

Mrs Williams starts the class by telling them to pair up, and he wastes no time scooting his chair next to Patrick as other students do the same with their partners. After everyone has settled, Mrs Williams switches off the lights. “Alright. Today, we are going to watch a video—”

The whole class erupts into cheers, but it quickly dies down when she continues her sentence. “ _But_ after watching the video, you will need to answer questions in the handout that I will be giving.”

A chorus of quiet groans echoes in the classroom, including his own, but Mrs Williams ignores them as she goes to switch off the light to start the video. “Please pay attention to this documentary. It is important for everyone to learn about this.”

The video begins to play, and it’s a documentary on mental illnesses. Furrowing his brows in confusion, he gives his full attention to the screen in front. It’s only thirty minutes long, ending with a list of hotline numbers. He doesn’t understand why they need to learn about mental illnesses. There’s no such thing as mental illnesses; people are either happy or sad. Everything else is just an excuse.

Suicide? A cry for attention.

“Okay, now please discuss with your partner and answer the questions on the handout. Hand it in before class is dismissed.”

He frowns as he reads over the questions on the handout given to them. “I don’t get people who do that.”

“What? Suicide?”

“Yeah. It’s like—” he purses his lip, trying to find the right word. It’s just right there on the tip of his tongue. “—selfish? yeah. They’re being selfish. they have friends and family who genuinely love and care about them, and then they just— just did that without thinking of them? Don’t they know how much hurt it would cause everyone?”

Patrick’s quiet beside him, which is unusual. Patrick has been talkative all day. He faces Patrick, eyebrows furrowed at his sudden small demeanor. “What do you think?”

Patrick’s eyes are fixed on his notebook on the table, lips pressed into a thin line. “Not everything is about their friends and family. It’s not wrong to put yourself first. You can’t be too selfless.”

“I mean, I guess, but they should know that suicide is only going to cause hurt to everyone around them.”

“It doesn’t.”

He whips his neck to look at Patrick, brows furrowed at Patrick’s stoic expression. Patrick’s staring out the window when he continues, “how would you know their friends and family love them? How would you know they’re going to miss them when they’re gone?”

“Well… they’re their friends and family. Isn’t that enough?”

Patrick turns to him with the most unreadable expression in his eyes that he’s ever seen. “Would you stay knowing your friends and family hate you?”

“W- well, you wouldn’t hate me, right?”

“Hypothetically. Everyone in the world hates you. Would you stay or leave?”

“Even if everyone hates me, I’d still stay because God—”

He stops himself when Patrick snorts and rolls his eyes. “What? God _loves_ everyone? If He really does, then why did He create people who are totally fucked up in the head when everyone else is normal? Why are some people healthy and some don’t? Why couldn’t He just create everyone equally?”

His mouth falls agape at Patrick’s answer, his brain taking so slow to register every word.

“He doesn’t love everyone. He loves _some,_ but not the others.”

“That’s not true.” He eventually says, his voice quiet as his mind contemplates over Patrick’s words. Of course God loves everyone. He just… He just wants to see how His subjects deal with the struggles thrown at them.

Feeling uncomfortable with the subject, he slides the handout towards Patrick, hoping that it can steer them away from the sensitive subject. “Here. Write your answers down.”

Patrick eventually drops his gaze down to the piece of paper between them. “Why does it matter?”

“It’s for our assignment.” he Heminds his friend as he points to the spaces that are still blank. “We need to hand it in before class is dismissed.”

When Patrick doesn’t say anything, he stays just as quiet. Patrick seems different today. His whole presence feels different, not like the cheerful Patrick before the class started. Was it something he said? Was it because of the documentary Mrs Williams showed them? He _knew_ the video shouldn’t even be played in the first place. The topic of the video itself is almost a taboo to speak out loud.

“Do you hate them? Those who try to do it?”

He scratches his chin and hums at Patrick’s questions. He wouldn’t go as far as _hating_ them… “I wouldn’t say _hate_. It’s a strong word. Dislike, maybe? I don’t think I can see myself associating with them.”

“Not even if they’re your own friends?”

“They won’t do such a thing.” He shrugs. He _knows_ all his friends won’t commit suicide. They don’t have a reason to, anyway. “They know better. Like you.”

“Ten minutes, class. Remember to submit before you go to your next class.”

He turns back to Patrick and gestures to the paper in front of him. “Come on. Write your answer down, then we can go.”

Patrick twirls his pencil between his fingers, staring at the paper with a faraway look in his eyes. While waiting for Patrick to write his answer down, he packs up his book and pencils into his bag. When he looks back up, Patrick is writing on the paper, hand moving swiftly across it.

“Let me—”

“I’ll give it to Mrs Williams.”

He nods, watching Patrick go. He couldn’t help wondering what Patrick wrote down as his answer.

-

On a Saturday night when he’s getting ready to go bed, his phone beeps with a notification coming in. He grabs his phone, elated to find a text from Patrick, but the smile on his face disappears when he reads the text.

_From: Patrick  
_ _22:28:11  
_ _come down. I’m outside your house_

Clad in pajamas, he runs downstairs and to the front porch, mouth falling agape when a car—a familiar car—is parked in front of his house. He walks over to it and knocks on the window. When the window rolls down, he opens his mouth, “what are you—”

His question is cut short when he notices something amiss. Patrick raises an eyebrow, looking at him as if he’s lost his mind, and that’s when it clicks.

“Patrick.” He hisses, whipping his head left and right to make sure no one in the neighbourhood hears him or sees what he’s seeing. “You’re not supposed to drive! You don’t even have a license! Do your dads know about this?”

“Of course they don’t. They went out.” Patrick scoffs as he rolls his eyes at him. “God, had I known you’d react like this, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

He drags a hand down his face and takes a deep breath, mentally counting backwards from ten. When he reckons that he’s cooled down enough, he turns back to Patrick. “Why are you here anyway? I thought you’re still grounded.”

“Wanna go to a party?” Patrick shoots him a cheeky grin that makes his eyes squint. “Gabe invited me, so I thought—”

“Whoa, wait.” He stops Patrick mid-sentence. Did he hear that right? “Gabe? As in Gabe _Saporta?_ ”

“—and he said it’s going to be the best party—”

His jaw drops in shock and disbelief before he pulls himself together and glares at Patrick, who is still talking. “Patrick, he’s a senior! He’s _eighteen!_ What were you doing with him?!”

“Would you relax? he never pressures me to do anything.”

“He’s _eighteen!”_ He tugs at his hair, frustrated at how nonchalant Patrick is about hanging out with someone older than them. Someone who’s practically an _adult_ while they’re still _minors._ “You could get yourself in trouble! You could get _him_ in trouble!”

“You’re such a grinch.” Patrick mutters as he starts the engine of the car. “Whatever. If you don’t want to go, I’ll just go by myself.”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Should he follow Patrick? If his parents found out, he’s going to be grounded for the _rest_ of his life. On the other hand, if Patrick goes by himself at the party, no one would watch over him. Something bad might happen to Patrick.

Oh Lord, please forgive him for what he’s about to do.

“Give me five minutes to change.”

-

The party is loud and crowded and stinks and everything he thought a party is. Just twenty minutes into the party, Patrick’s already started drinking, and he’s not letting Patrick off his eyesight. Patrick’s bound to make some bad decisions tonight—hell, Patrick already did when he came to his house driving his dad’s car without their parents knowing—and he’s gonna make sure Patrick doesn’t make any one anymore.

The booming music played on the speakers nearly shatters his eardrums, its bass beating in tandem with his heart, making it beat harder and harder against his ribcage. A body crashes into him, their drink spilled on him, and he jerks himself away, not wanting to have to do anything with anyone in the party.

It feels spooky. Everyone around him are all taller than him, and that’s more than a sign that all the party-goers are older—much, _much_ older—than him. This is getting dangerous dangerously fast. They need to get out of here.

He looks up from the crowd and pales when Patrick is nowhere in sight. Shit. Did he lose Patrick? Where did Patrick go?

Squeezing through the crowds, he shouts for Patrick’s name but is drowned out by the surrounding noise. Stenches of sweat and alcohol fill his nostrils, nauseating and churning his stomach that makes him feel like he’s a minute away from throwing up his dinner in the middle of the room.

The flashing disco light nearly blinds his vision, and it doesn't help that everyone seems to have an advantage over his height. His feet got stepped in multiple times, his head elbowed too, though he's sure two of those hits are deliberate rather than accident.

Finally, he manages to get off the ground floor and to the stairs, where, hopefully, Patrick's somewhere on the upper floor in one piece.

The stairs aren't any easier than when he was on the ground floor. People are littering the entire stairway, some going up and some going down at the same time, and some even jumping to the floor below. And every time he goes up, he's shoved two steps down.

Suffice to say, the first thirty minutes into the party has made him lose all hope that seniors and college students are more mature than those who are younger than them.

Once he sneaks his way up to the second floor, he slinks his way to the first room he sees. There aren’t any people standing by the door, so that seems to be a good place to start. The door creaks open when he pushes it, but the sound is drowned by the music being played. He opens the door wider and peeks his head in, looking left and right and squinting his eyes to find even a sliver of his best friend’s silhouette.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him to get a better look even though everything is just blurry outlines with shades of black and grey from the lack of light. Finding nothing, he turns on his heels to leave, and a soft giggle catches his attention. The voice seems familiar. _Too_ familiar.

He scans around the room again, searching for the voice, and that’s when his eyes catch the sight of one, maybe two silhouettes on the bed. His feet move on their own, getting closer to the bed as curiosity bubbles up inside him, and when his mind registers what he’s seeing, blood drains from his face.

Gabe is leaning against the headboard with a lapful of Patrick, who has his lips locked with Gabe and arms loosely draped on Gabe’s shoulders. Horror fills from head to toe, but it vanishes when red starts to surge in his veins. Without thinking, he marches to their direction.

Patrick leans back, head tilted and lips parted, blowing out a puff of smoke upwards into the air. He scrunches his nose at the smell; it’s not cigarette smoke, that’s for sure.

Now that he’s closer to them, their position becomes clearer and all the more horrifying. Gabe’s hands are on the back of Patrick’s jeans—even in the dark, he knows where those hands are placed, and for some reason, it ignites a fire in his chest.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Gabe chuckles as he moves his hand to Patrick’s, guiding it down to between their bodies. “Wanna be a good boy for me?”

Patrick falls into him with a giggle, head buried in the crook of of Gabe’s neck as his hand fumbles in the dark. No sounds are heard from either of them except for their soft giggles and pants. He isn’t sure what they’re doing, but the second his ears catch the sound of zip opening, his instinct takes over.

He sprints to the bed and pulls Patrick back by the collar, dragging him until he’s out of bed and a good distance from Gabe. His fingers are digging into Patrick’s skin, though neither of them seems to take heed of it as adrenaline thrums under his skin, fear and worry and fury blending and fighting over one another to take control of his brain.

Patrick looks up at him and laughs, his eyes cloudy. “Brendon! Want me to blow you too?”

Disgusted and repulsed, he tows Patrick out of the room, ignoring the protest from Gabe and squeals of laughter from Patrick. He goes through the crowd, not caring if he bumps into anyone. The only thing on his mind at the moment is to _get out_ of there _with Patrick._

Once outside by the sidewalk, he pulls out his phone and dials for his brother. At this time of need, he’s glad that his brother is on his break from his university. “I need you to pick me up.”

His brother doesn’t hesitate to answer him with a, _“Sure. Text me the address.”_

“Bren— hey, Brendon.” Patrick wraps his arms around his neck with a laugh that echoes through the night air, and he backs away from Patrick’s alcohol-stained breath. How much did Patrick drink at the party? “Did you— did you know Gabe was gonna—gonna bring me to the bedroom?”

“He already did.” He answers with restrained anger, jaws clenched as he holds Patrick to keep him from stumbling. “Can you stay still? My brother’s gonna come to pick us up.”

“And— and, Gabe said he was gonna show me something.” Patrick giggles, then moves to whisper in his ear, “He even said I could touch it!”

He takes a deep breath and holds it for five seconds— anything to keep himself from exploding right then and there. Good thing he came to the party with Patrick. If he didn’t, he doesn’t know what would happen to his friend.

Heaving out a long sigh, he pushes Patrick by the shoulder until he’s sitting down on the pavement. “Just sit down and keep quiet, okay?”

He sits down next to Patrick and rubs his temples as Patrick lies down on his back, talking nonsense that he can’t give an ounce of his energy to listen to. Tonight has been a nightmare. This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be in his room, sleeping and dreaming of being the valedictorian of his class.

He’s definitely not supposed to be at a party filled with seniors and college students nor should he be taking care of Patrick’s... Patrick’s _idiotic_ _ass_ at the said party. His body feels warm despite the cool night, and he’s thinking of taking his jacket off when Patrick tugs at his sleeve.

“What?” He asks, not bothering to hide the sharpness in his voice.

“I wanna go back to Gabe.” Patrick whines, his voice drawling Gabe’s name out. “This is boring.”

He slaps at Patrick’s hand that’s still tugging his jacket. “Tough luck. My brother’s coming any minute.”

Silence passes by them, save for the faint music from the party. He would have enjoyed the calmness had Patrick not, repeatedly, pull at his jacket. He shoves Patrick’s hand away, feeling his head beginning to throb with a migraine. “Would you _quit_ touching me?”

“You’re boring.” Patrick complains as he rolls over on his side and closer to him, returning to pull at his jacket _again._ “At least Gabe would let me touch him! Gabe would let me suck his—”

He covers his ears with his hands, not wanting to hear Patrick finish his sentence. He can’t believe how… how _crude_ Patrick is being. What exactly did Patrick take at the party that caused him to act like this?

He continues to ignore Patrick’s babbling next to him as he waits with what patience he has left for his brother to arrive, and thankfully, the silhouette of his brother’s beaten-up car comes into view.

Standing up, he pats his pants clean before pulling Patrick up to his feet, who doesn’t make it any easy for him. He eventually places Patrick’s arm around his shoulders and wraps his own around Patrick’s waist to keep him upright. His brother parks beside them and rolls the window down. “How did you two even get here?”

“Patrick drove.” He points to the car parked by a tree just a few cars away. “It’s his dad’s.”

“Are you fucking serious?” His brother sighs and pulls out his phone, tapping several times before pressing the phone next to his ear. “I’m calling my friend so he can drive the car back.”

While waiting for his brother’s friend to arrive, he maneuvers Patrick into the backseat, being careful that he doesn’t hit his head on the roof. Two of his brother’s friends come minutes later on a motorcycle, to which one of them gets off and walks to his brother’s side of the car.

His brother then looks at him. “Where’s the car key?”

He moves Patrick so he can reach into his pocket for the key, but when Patrick refuses to stay still and wiggle around instead, he pushes Patrick flat onto his back, patience rapidly running thin. Ignoring Patrick’s wandering hands, he manages to slip his hand into the pocket of Patrick’s jeans and fish the key out before handing it to his brother, who passes it to his friend.

The entire drive to Patrick’s house is silent and tense. He stays quiet in his seat, muscles stiffen as the previous anger courses through him, bubbling and waiting to pop under his skin. His hands are curled into tight fists, trembling with an immense amount of energy.

Patrick sits up and crawls towards him, whining about wanting to go back to the party and to Gabe. He tries to ignore what Patrick is saying, but his patience limit is reached when Patrick reaches for his shirt and presses his face against his neck.

And the memories of how he found Patrick with Gabe rush into his mind. An _underage_ sophomore with an _18-year-old_ senior, drinking and smoking and kissing and— and—

“Patrick, what were you thinking?!” He grips at Patrick’s hand, stopping him when Patrick fumbles at his jeans, but his friend just giggles up at him. “Do you know how dangerous that was?! I can’t believe you— you _smoked!_ ”

Patrick bites his lip, snorting laughter and looking up at him with glassy, red eyes. “It’s just _weed_ , god _._ S’not like I was— was takin’ some, some poison or—”

Patrick’s sentence is cut off by his own laughter, and the grip he has on Patrick becomes tighter— both in fear and anger. How can Patrick be so— so _irresponsible_ and _reckless?_ “And you had _alcohol._ ”

“Teensy.” Patrick beams, showing him his index finger and thumb that are close together. “Bit.”

“And you— _God,_ you made out with Gabe! He’s eighteen!”

“He’s _really_ good w—”

“Just shut up!” He snaps, hot tears now pooling in his eyes as he glares at his friend. “Who _are_ you?! I don’t even know you anymore!”

“I’m—” Patrick burps and covers his mouth, giggling before turning serious, “I’m batman.”

He turns to the front and buries his face in his hands, jaws clenching as Patrick bursts into giggling fits. Even with the air-conditioner on, everything feels on fire. What is happening to Patrick? What is _wrong_ with Patrick?

“I want ice-cream.”

“No. you’re going to stay quiet until we get you home.”

“But _Brendon.”_

His brother looks at him through the rear-view mirror. “You should buy him something to eat so he doesn’t feel sick. I’ll stop by the convenience store.”

“Can we go watch movie this weekend?” Patrick pokes him on the cheek, and he slaps his hand away.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re both going to get grounded for eternity when we get home.”

Patrick giggles again before leaning towards him, whispering, “Hey, wanna know a secret?”

He sighs, tired. He has no energy nor the patience left to deal with Patrick after what happened. “What?”

“I hate vitamins. Haven’t— haven’t taken ‘em in a while.” Patrick lets out a small hiccup as he collapses into his lap. “They taste bad. Make me feel— feel weird. Don’t make me eat ‘em again.”

“Then just tell your dads. I’m sure they’d understand.”

“They wouldn’t. They force me to— to swallow ‘em and— everyday, it’s terrible and— like it’s night and there’s something hiding but I saw it’s— it’s claws and— and the closet’s screaming and I was screaming and the tree—”

His hand moves to Patrick’s arm, caressing up and down as Patrick continues to ramble incoherent and incomplete sentences one after another. None of them makes sense to him, and he doesn’t know what Patrick’s trying to say either. In fact, he’s not even sure Patrick understands what he himself is saying.

“—and I wanna— wanna sleep and dream again but they— they keep me up and they won't— they always drag me out at night and I— I don’t wanna go home alone and—”

“You’re not.” He speaks in a gentle tone as he continues to move his hand. “You’re not going back alone, okay? I’m here. My brother’s here. You’re not alone, alright?”

It’s as if Patrick is in a different world, because he continues to talk and does not stop once to take a breath. His worries begin to grow big; Patrick sounds scared and frantic, as if he’s just a few seconds away from having a panic attack. “Patrick, slow down. You’re talking too fast.”

He lets out a quiet curse. Did Patrick bring his inhaler with him? They’re going to be deep in trouble if Patrick has no inhaler on him. He’s just a teen. What is he supposed to do in case Patrick has an asthma attack?

“Patrick.” He calls and strokes Patrick’s head to pull him back to reality. Patrick’s mouth moves fast, his words mashed and jumbled together and making no sense, and it terrifies him. He calls Patrick’s name again, this time, his voice turns out shaky. “Patrick, can you hear me? You want ice-cream, right? I’ll buy you ice-cream. What flavour do you want?”

“He— I don’t think he hears me.” His breathing begins to get fast, fear and anxiety almost getting to him. He looks up at his brother for help. “what should I do?”

“Keep talking to him.” His brother instructs, eyes never leaving the road. “Get him distracted.”

Unsure of what he’s supposed to say to distract Patrick, he turns his attention back to Patrick, hand stroking his hair. “Hey, you remember Jones, right? Spencer Jones? My favourite comic book artist?”

Patrick’s still mumbling under his breath, and he leans down, hoping Patrick can feel his presence and snap out of it. “He’s coming to town soon for a signing. Wanna come with?”

Before he can say anything else, his brother has already stopped in front of a convenience store, tossing his wallet to him. “Buy something for him to eat.”

His gaze drops to Patrick, worried. “But what about Pa—”

“I’ll watch him.” His brother interrupts. “Just go.”

Not wanting to waste any more second, he opens the door and rushes inside the store, picking up one ice-cream, one bread, and one bottle of water before checking out. There’s no one else in the shop except for him and the cashier, and as he waits for the cashier to finish scanning the items, his foot taps in impatience, eyes glancing outside to his brother’s car every few seconds.

Patrick’s going to be okay, right?

“Two dollars f—”

He fishes out three one-dollar notes from his brother’s wallet before the cashier can even finish his sentence. The cashier takes it and rings in the register. “Would you like plas—”

“No.” He replies, gathering everything in his arms and hoping they don’t fall. “You know what, keep the change.”

He goes out the door before the cashier can say anything, and he climbs back inside the car, only to see that Patrick has fallen asleep and is taking up the entire backseat. He slides in carefully, lifting Patrick’s head up before gently resting him on his lap.

“When did he fall asleep?” he asks, keeping his voice low as he gestures for his brother to start driving. After placing the food and drink in the passenger seat, he leans back and runs his finger through Patrick’s hair, previous nerves calming down with each slow rise and fall of Patrick’s shoulders.

“As soon as you got out.” His brother replies, then asks him, “hey, is Patrick okay?”

He shrugs and looks down at Patrick sleeping away in his lap. It has been a while since Patrick is this calm. “Clearly he’s not. You saw what happened.”

“No, I mean— is he _okay?_ Does he have any problems at home or at school?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Does he have any illnesses?”

Does Patrick? He doesn’t seem like he’s in pain the entire time he’s known Patrick. “Not that I know of. Why?”

His brother is silent, but his answer sends chills down his spine. “I don’t think he was talking about vitamins.”

He snaps his neck up to look at his brother, shock and terror coursing through him. If it’s not vitamins, then… drugs? “Then, what was he talking about?”

His brother doesn’t answer him and keeps driving in silence.

Noticing his brother’s unusual reaction, he’s almost too afraid to ask what his brother meant by it, so he keeps his mouth shut. Though, that doesn’t stop his mind from dwelling on it.

-

“We’re here.” His brother announces, voice soft, once they have reached Patrick’s home. “Do you want me to help him inside?”

He glances down when Patrick stirs in his sleep, his eyes blinking open, slow. He strokes his hair. “Patrick? We’re here.”

Patrick makes a non-committal sound under his breath before curling into himself and closing his eyes. Did Patrick fall back asleep?

Looking out the window, he finds his brother’s friend has already parked the car in the driveway, and there’s no light whatsoever coming from the house. Either Patrick’s parents have gone to bed or they’re still not home— Mr Wentz always parks his car inside the garage, so he doesn’t know if they’re home or not.

Best get Patrick up to his room before Mr Wentz and Mr Way realize what their only child had been doing.

He opens the car door all the way, but not stepping out just yet. He places his arm around Patrick’s waist and Patrick’s arm around his shoulders, being very careful to pull him out of the car.

Before he closes the door, his brother calls him. He peeks his head inside, head cocked. “What is it?”

“Tell his parents that he hasn't been taking his vitamins.”

He looks at his brother weirdly. They're just vitamins. Why are his brother and Patrick's dads so serious about them? Patrick can survive without taking vitamins. “Yeah, sure.”

He crosses the lawn to get to the front door with Patrick beside him, and when they’re at the front porch, he sneaks his hand into Patrick’s pocket to search for his house key. Patrick seems to be awake again when he lets out a yawn and leans further into him, making him stumble, but he manages to gain his footing so they don’t fall. “Where are we?”

“Your house.” He replies, still searching for the key. “Where’s your house key?”

Instead of answering him, Patrick reaches forward for the doorknob and twists it, the door opening with a quiet creak. “S’not locked.”

His mouth falls open in shock, then hisses at Patrick. “You didn’t lock your house? What if someone broke in?”

Patrick lets out a snort as he detaches himself from him and straightens up. Although, he’s clearly still somewhat disoriented with how he keeps wobbling on his feet the whole way inside the house. “Someone didn’t.”

“Someone could have.”

His heart stops at the voice. That can’t be…

A flash of bright light blinds him, and when his vision becomes normal again, the living room is illuminated with Mr Way sitting on the couch, arms crossed.

“Mr Way. Good evening.” He stutters as his legs grow weak, terrified now that he’s caught by Patrick’s dad. He steals a quick glance at Patrick, who is unbothered and even expressionless as he continues to make his way to his room.

Mr Way frowns, his eyes locking on Patrick the entire time. “Where were you?”

“Not home.” Patrick replies, not even turning around to face his dad properly. He gets to his room before Mr Way can say more, and they both jolt when Patrick slams the door shut behind him.

He looks down at his feet, guilty, as Mr Way’s sigh echo in the living room. “I, uh, I’d better get back. My brother’s waiting.”

Mr Way opens his mouth as if to say something, but he closes his mouth and nods. “Thanks for bringing him home.”

He trudges back to his brother’s car, and it’s only when he closes the door that he realizes he forgot to tell Mr Way about the vitamins. With a quiet groan, he leans back in his seat and rubs his temples.

“You okay?” his brother asks.

Guess he’ll find some other time to tell Mr Way about it.

“I just want to go home.”

-

He goes to Patrick’s house the next day to check up on him. It’s already half past noon, so surely Patrick’s already awake. Grey clouds are hovering in the sky, and he pulls his jacket tighter and walks faster. He doesn’t do really well in rain—in fact, more often than not, he would catch a cold if he’s under the rain for more than 5 minutes—so he hopes he can get there before it starts to rain.

He knocks on the door, expecting for Patrick to open for him, but finds Mr Way standing in front of him instead. He gives him a nervous smile, but it quickly dies when he sees the somber look on Mr Way’s face.

“Can I talk to you?” Mr Way asks. “In the kitchen?”

“Sure?” He follows Mr Way to the kitchen and makes himself comfortable on one of the stools before accepting the drink Mr Way offers him. Mr Way peeks into the living room before giving his attention to him.

“I need to ask you a question, and I want you to answer the truth, okay?”

His back straightens in fear as blood starts to pound in his ears. Is he in trouble? “W- what is it?”

“What happened last night?”

He bites his lip, keeping his gaze down on the mug in his hands. What should he do? Should he tell the truth? Should he lie? He didn’t want to get in trouble. What if Mr Way tells his parents?

“Brendon.” Mr Way bends so they see eye-to-eye, and he flicks his gaze up. Instead of angry, Mr Way’s eyes are pleading and full of concern, and his shoulders drop with a sigh.

“Patrick invited me to a party that a senior was throwing.” He recalls back to what happened the night before. When Mr Way doesn’t give any response, he continues, “I didn’t plan to go, but I went anyway so I could keep an eye on him.”

Then, he looks up at Mr Way. “But I _swear_ I only took my eyes off of him for like, a second, and he’s gone. The next time I saw him, he was drinking and smoking, that’s it.”

He opts out to mention the part where he caught Patrick making out with Gabe. Big trouble’s gonna come if Mr Way knows. “I called my brother to pick us up and…”

He shrugs at the end of his sentence. Mr Way is quiet for a while, staring off to the wall as if mulling over his words, then faces him again. “That’s all? Nothing else happened?”

“No, sir.” He shakes his head.

When Mr Way slumps over the island with a heavy sigh, guilt fills him. It must be hard for Mr Way to take in the information. Seeing him this devastated, he decides to keep the secret of Patrick making out with a senior to his grave.

Silence stretches in the kitchen, and he takes a sip of his drink. That reminds him. “He also said something last night.”

Mr Way looks up at him, dark rings layered under his eyes. “What is it?”

He purses his lips. he doesn’t know what the big deal about the vitamin is, but since his brother insists him to tell Patrick’s parents about it… “That he hasn't been taking his vitamins? Does that help?”

“Oh God, I can’t believe this.” Mr Way sighs as he drags his hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. Feeling awkward, he stands there until Mr Way speaks to him again. “Did he say when he stopped taking them?”

He tenses at the reaction he gets. Why does he feel like the vitamins aren’t like any other regular vitamins? Their reactions are too serious for the vitamins to be the ones like he took when he was a kid. “Not really. He said in a while, that’s all. He wasn’t being specific.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Um, can you—” He looks down at his lap and picks at his nails, “—can you not tell Patrick that I told you about it? I don’t want him to get mad at me.”

“Sure thing.” Mr Way looks outside the window, frowning. “You’d better get back to your home now. It looks like it’s going to rain.”

He nods, agreeing with Mr Way when the heavy clouds come into view outside the window, accompanied by flashes of light and roars of thunder. He finishes his drink and hops off the stool, smiling at Mr Way. “See you soon, Mr Way. Tell Patrick to get better soon.”

“I will.”

Patrick comes down the stairs just as he opens the front door, and he waves to Patrick with a smile, both of which aren’t returned by Patrick. Patrick’s face is gloomy, skin grey, cheeks sunken, and eyes framed with dark rings; a different Patrick than the Patrick a few weeks ago where they hung out in his room. In fact, a whole different Patrick from last night.

With one last stare at Patrick, he walks out and closes the door behind him just as Mr Way enters the living room. Even through the door, he can hear their muffled voices clear.

_“Why did you lie to us?”_

_“I didn’t lie.”_

_“You haven’t been taking your pills.”_

He freezes. Pills? Is Mr Way talking about the vitamins? Is what his brother said true, then? That Patrick might be sick?

_“I have! You gave them to me every day!”_

_“Did you swallow them?”_

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Thunder rumbles across the sky, sending vibrations on the ground, and he glances up at the grey clouds. Should he go home now or stay for a few more seconds? If he stays, at least, maybe, he’ll get to find out what has been causing Patrick to act different lately.

_“I did!”_

_“Patrick Martin, don’t you_ dare _lie to my face.”_

 _“What are you gonna do about it? Ground me? Tell Dad? Hold me down like I’m some kind of wild animal like last time? Throw me out? Do it! I don’t care! I_ hate _being—”_

Patrick’s words are drowned out by the sound of the heavy rain pouring down. He lets out a curse as he pulls the hood over his head, jogging his way back to his house.

His mom is going to be _furious_ when he comes home drenched from head to toe.

-

Patrick hasn’t come to school for two days straight now. This is becoming really weird really fast, considering Patrick rarely skips school. Is Patrick sick? Is he having a fever? A cold? A flu?

No. Patrick would have at least texted him to tell him about it. Patrick would ask him to take notes in the class and get his homework and assignments for him.

So… why didn’t he come to school, then?

Could it because his parents ground him? No, couldn’t be. Even if they did ground him, they would still let Patrick go to school. They wouldn’t let him skip one day without a logical and valid reason. So, what could possibly be the reason?

In the middle of the class, when the teacher turns to write something on the whiteboard, he startles at the nudge he receives from behind him. He cocks his head, looking over his shoulder to see Dallon’s curious and concerned face. “Where’s Patrick?”

His body droops. “Honestly? I don’t know either.”

-

At night, after dinner and doing his homework, he lies on his bed, thoughts racing at light speed in his mind. What happened to Patrick? Why didn’t Patrick come to school? Why didn’t Patrick tell him about it? As a matter of fact, why _hasn’t_ Patrick contacted him yet?

Did Patrick cut off their friendship again?

He rolls on his side and curls into himself, teeth biting into his lower lip in distress. What if it Patrick really did? What if Patrick somehow managed to find out that he’s the one who told Mr Way about the party? What if… what if they’ll never see or talk to each other again?

His phone rings, interrupting him of his thoughts. When he reaches for his phone and glances at the screen, his heart rate picks up at the name blinking. _Patrick._

His fingers scramble to answer the call, but Patrick has already ended it before he can say a word. He pulls his phone down, about to call Patrick when his phone buzzes with an incoming text.

_From: Patrick  
_ _23:11:00  
_ _Meet me at the playground in the park_

_To: Patrick  
_ _23:11:06  
_ _Right now? How?_

_From: Patrick  
_ _23:11:10  
_ _Sneak out. I’m waiting_

He blinks at the text Patrick just sent him. Did he read the last sentence right?

Patrick’s waiting? Does that mean Patrick’s already at the park? Alone? _This_ late at night? Isn’t it dangerous? What is he doing there all alone?

He takes a quick look at the time. It’s already past eleven— how is he going to sneak out? His parents may have gone to bed, but his brother would probably still be up in the living room watching the television. That, or playing video games.

Sometimes he does get a little jealous over the fact that his brother gets to stay up late just because he’s not in school anymore.

He grabs his jacket and puts it on before opening the door as slow and as quiet as he can. He peeks his head out, looking left and right twice to make sure no one’s around and awake. Then, he tiptoes down the hallway and into the living room, which is illuminated by the television.

Great. Just as he suspected, his brother is still awake and playing video games on mute. Still, that doesn’t mean it’s going to stop him from meeting Patrick at the playground.

With the stealthiness of a mouse, he crawls all the way to the front door with the hopes that his brother won’t notice him. When he reaches the door, he gets up to his feet, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his brother’s attention remains on the television, and twists the doorknob open.

He looks back to his brother again, relieved that he’s still focused on his video game. He steps outside and carefully close the door behind him, then lets out a quiet cheer of victory as he runs off to the direction of the playground.

-

Patrick’s already sitting on the ground when he found him, shoulders hunched and staring off in the distance. He clears his throat as a way to announce his presence.

“Hey.” Patrick greets him before patting the ground next to him. “Did I pull you out of anything?”

He shakes his head and smiles, then plops down on the ground. “No. I wasn’t doing anything before I came here.”

“What did you do today?”

“Nothing much.” He shrugs. It has been a pretty boring day. “Did my homework, played video games. Went to church for choir practice.”

“I missed you.” Patrick murmurs as he leans his head on his shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

His heart skips at Patrick’s confession as his face heats up. He looks down, swallowing his nerves. “Y- yeah. Dallon missed you too. He asked about you the other day.”

“Did people say anything about me?”

“Not really? They only asked where you were, but they didn’t say anything.”

Patrick hums. “What have you been up to lately?”

“There was a wedding at church yesterday. It was boring, but since my parents are members of the church and were invited, so I had to go too.”

“Was it fun?”

“Like any other wedding. Same old vows.” He’s only a teenager, but he has the traditional vows and the script engraved into his brain from the countless weddings he was forced to attend. “From this day forward.”

Patrick makes a low hum. “Till tonight do us part.”

“That’s not how it goes.” He chides playfully, bumping Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s _till death do us part._ ”

“Sounds the same to me.” When Patrick smiles, it’s as if the stars shine brighter in the sky. Then, the smile slowly drops, and he wonders what Patrick’s thinking. “What would you do if I’m gone?”

Gone? “Are you moving to a new place?”

“No.” Patrick chuckles. “I just want to know. What would you do?”

He looks down at his feet, frowning in thought. “Depends. Are we going to see each other again?”

“No. We don’t get to see each other again.”

Are Patrick’s parents going to send him to a boarding school? “Well, we can still find a way to stay in touch, right? We can text and call each other anytime.”

“What if the place I’m going to has bad reception?” Patrick asks again, his voice becoming quiet with each word. “Doesn’t even have a signal.”

“Well…” That’s going to be hard. “I don’t think I’d be going anywhere, so you can always come back here.”

And then it’s quiet between them. “Will you miss me?”

Heat creeps up his neck and face. Did he hear that right? “Uh— what?”

“Will you miss me when I’m gone?”

Of course he will, but it’s embarrassing to say it out loud. What if Patrick finds out about his feelings for him? “W- what about you? Will you miss me when you’re gone?”

Patrick chuckles and drops his forehead to his knees. “I don’t know.”

Patrick doesn’t know? What kind of an answer is that? Of course Patrick should know. “Are you still mad at me? For what happened between you and your dads? Because if you are, I’m so—”

“Forget it.” Patrick whispers, interrupting him in the middle of his sentence. “It doesn’t matter.”

His stomach sinks. Did he upset Patrick again? Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up about the fight. “Sorry.”

“You say that a lot.” Patrick sighs as he lifts his head back up, his chin propped on his knees as they both stare at the night sky ahead. “Hey, can I ask you another question?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Do you—” Patrick pauses, tongue poking out to lick his lips. “Will you— will you forgive me if I do something you don’t like?”

“Of course I’ll forgive you.” There’s no way he won’t forgive Patrick. Besides, what’s Patrick going to do? Cheat on a test? Highly unlikely. Going to another party? He’ll be sure to keep his eyes on Patrick next time. “Besides, I trust you have a good reason for it.”

“A good reason, huh?” Patrick muses. “It’s pretty subjective, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Patrick shrugs. “A good reason for me might be a bad reason for someone else.”

“Well, I don’t think their opinion matters.” He states with a frown. “It’s your decision. You know what’s best for you. You shouldn’t have to explain or justify your actions to them. If they really care about you, they should respect your decision.”

“You know what? You’re right.” Patrick turns to him, smiling and throwing his arms around him in a hug. His heart races at the close proximity. If they were pressed chest to chest, he’s sure that Patrick can feel how fast and how hard is heart is beating. “You’re the best.”

He drops his gaze to the ground below and rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “It’s nothing. If I were you, I’d do exactly that.”

When Patrick detaches himself from him, he finds himself missing the warm touch. Half of his mind wants to pull Patrick back to his side, but he manages to keep that side under control.

“I just feel like everyone is against me.” Patrick sighs as he returns back to his original position. “Even my dads are. I'm tired of everyone telling me what to do.”

Mr Way and Mr Wentz probably aren't like that. They don't seem the type to control their own kid. “Maybe they just love you so much. I mean, what parents bring their kid to picnics every week and give vitamins every day?”

Patrick lets out a quiet, bitter scoff. “everything is not what it seems.”

He turns to Patrick, one eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Patrick mutters as he folds his arms on his knees before burying his face in his folded arms. “It’s quiet tonight.”

A cool breeze brushes against his skin, making him shiver. Faint hoots echo in the park, and chills run down his spine. “Dark and scary, too.”

Patrick lifts his head slightly. “You wanna know what I find in the dark?”

“What?”

“Peace.”

He turns to look at Patrick, incredulous written all over his face. How can someone find peace in the dark? How can someone not be _scared_ of the dark, let alone find _peace?_

Patrick sends him an amused glance, noticing his reaction. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

Blood rushes up to his cheeks, and he averts his gaze as a nervous chuckle escapes his lips. Really? Patrick thinks he's cute? “S- so are you.”

His heart begins to pound in his chest when Patrick scoots closer next to him until their sides are pressed together.

“Can I kiss you?”

The whole world goes silent after the question is whispered out of Patrick's lips. There's no doubt Patrick can hear how fast his heart is beating. He wants to say _yes,_ wants to scream it out loud because he has been wanting it for a while. He has been wanting it since he started having feelings for his best friend. He has been wanting it since Patrick stopped talking to him. He has been wanting it since he saw Patrick and dallon kissing.

And even with the party, he never stops wanting it.

Instead of giving him a verbal answer, he leans in, hesitating and pausing mid-way in case Patrick changes his mind. His stomach flips when Patrick does the same, leaning in until their faces are merely inches from each other.

The rings of yellow in Patrick’s blue eyes—as shiny as when they first met—are the last thing he sees before Patrick closes his eyes. His eyelids flutter close as their lips brush together, gentle and sending goosebumps on his arms.

His first kiss is everything he imagines it to be: with Patrick. It doesn’t matter where or how it goes, but as long as it’s Patrick, everything is perfect for him. He tilts his head, tasting more of Patrick and marvelling at how soft Patrick’s lips are.

He’s left breathless when Patrick eventually pulls away, a smile adorning his face before Patrick leans on his shoulder.

“I’m so glad I met you, B.”

-

“Hey, Mr Way.” He smiles, greeting the older man. “Patrick here?”

“You’re here early.” Mr Way returns his smile and opens the door wider, ushering him in. “He’s probably in his room. Just go right up.”

He heaves his bag high up his shoulder before taking out his comic book to show Mr Way. “I want to get there early so we’ll be in the front line when the store opens. Everyone’s excited to meet him!”

“Hope you kids have fun.” Mr Way laughs before disappearing into the living room. “You better start waking Patrick up now. You know he takes forever to wake up.”

Laughing in agreement, he skips towards the stairs and almost trips on his way up. It doesn’t falter him, though— he’s ecstatic about today! His favourite comic book artist is coming to their town for a signing and it’s today! He’s even bringing his favourite comic book to sign and his camera so he can capture the moment!

In fact, even though Patrick is grounded, Mr Way and Mr Wentz made an exception for this one-of-a-lifetime event, so he gets to share the exciting moment with Patrick!

When he reaches Patrick’s room, he raps his knuckles on the door before opening it. He takes a step inside, going pale at the sight.

Papers and books are strewn all over on the floor, bed unmade, and the walls are littered with scribbles in pens and marker pens. It’s like a tornado and a hurricane hit Patrick’s room at the same time. Confused, he closes the door behind him and walks to one area of the wall where there are writings over it, being careful to step a the broken chair. His eyes scan over the wall; there’s no doubt that it’s Patrick’s handwriting, and what are those, anyway? Poems? Lyrics?

_love never wanted me but i took it anyway  
_ _choose love or sympathy but never both  
_ _having another episode need a strongr dose  
_ _given up on myself twice  
_ _third times the charm_

Wow. Patrick’s _really_ good at writing poems. The lines seem incoherent together, but they’re still good. He turns to the left to read more.

_a loose bolt of a complete machine  
_ _ill never end up like him  
_ _behind my back i already am  
_ _youll never catch us  
_ _just let me be_

He frowns. If Patrick’s this good, then why didn’t he join the school’s poetry contest? Or poetry slam? He could have easily won first place, and he might even get extra credit for English. In fact, Patrick doesn’t even need tutoring in English.

_im a cocktail party  
_ _shoot sunshine into my veins  
_ _a happy mess  
_ _back to the bathroom for one more  
_ _im good to go_

The last poem is dated that yesterday; in fact, it’s the only one that has a date. The rest doesn’t. He reads back the other two poems again, and again and again, switching between the three, then to the other poems all across the wall. All of them are muddled, probably ramblings of Patrick’s thoughts, but there’s something about the poems that calls out to him.

Dread fills him when he makes out the connection between them, and he reads the poems again, then to the date.

_given up on myself twice  
_ _third times the charm_

Patrick can’t… Patrick didn’t, did he?

_back to the bathroom for one more  
_ _im good to go_

“Patrick!” he shouts, running to the adjoined bathroom and slamming the door open, eyes frantically searching for traces of his friend. Patrick’s not inside, and everything in the bathroom seems untouched. He leaves the room and sprints to the guest bathroom downstairs. The family rarely uses it, and whenever he’s over at the house, he always uses Patrick’s bathroom.

No one ever goes to the guest bathroom except for guests.

_“Will you forgive me if I do something you don’t like?”_

“Patrick!” he yanks at the doorknob to open it, and his heart drops when the door doesn’t budge. Panic starts to set in. he bangs his fists on the door, hoping that nothing bad happens inside. “Patrick, open the door! Patrick!”

When there’s no response coming from inside, he yells for Mr Way, hoping his voice is loud enough to be heard. “Mr Way! Help!”

Loud footsteps rush towards him, and he turns to Mr Way, opening his mouth before Mr Way gets the chance to. “Where’s the spare key to this bathroom?”

Without asking anything, Mr Way turns around to get the keys, returning not less than five seconds later. He steps aside so Mr Way can unlock the door, and once it opens, all air is knocked out of his lungs.

The red puddles on the floor are a stark contrast against the white tiles as some of the smaller puddles flow and merge together to become one big puddle. His gaze follows where the puddle drips from, and colour drain from his face when Patrick is draped over the tub, unconscious with both his arms hanging by the edge and oozing blood.

“Patrick!” he dashes to the tub and climbs behind Patrick, covering Patrick’s wrists with his hands to stop the blood from flowing out. “Patrick, come on! Stay with me!”

“Oh my God.” In a blink of an eye, Mr Way is kneeling beside him, stroking Patrick’s hair and trying to get him back to conscious. “Patrick, sweetheart? Can you hear me?”

He leans in close, his ear to Patrick’s nose, to check his breathing. When faint, warm air brushes against his cheek, he turns to Mr Way, who he now realizes has tears in his eyes. His throat bobs. “H- he’s still breathing.”

Mr Way nods and rubs his eyes as he pulls out his phone. “Try to stop the blood. I’m calling 911.”

“Patrick. Patrick, come on.” He grits his teeth to stop his sobs from escaping, and his eyes begin to sting with hot tears. He grips Patrick’s wrists tighter, ignoring the feeling of warm blood on his skin. “Don’t give up now. Please stay alive.”

His hands are trembling as he holds Patrick’s hands in his, trying to stop the blood from oozing out. He holds back the bile rising in his throat. Patrick’s blood has stained almost both of his hands, and it’s just dripping to the tiles below, adding more to the red puddle.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The smell of iron is getting stronger with each millimeter of blood that seeps out, entering his nostril and overwhelming his sense of smell. Mr Way helps to move Patrick so he can breathe, but his grip slips from Patrick’s wrist, the bile now in his mouth as Patrick’s blood pour from the open wound.

He stands there, feet frozen to the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from all the blood smearing the floor and the tub. Tears have made their way down his face, trickling, just like the blood from Patrick’s wrists.

As soon as the paramedics arrive and carry Patrick out of the bathroom, he drops to his knees in front of the toilet bowl and expels all the contents in his stomach, his blood-stained hands shaking and leaving behind ugly crimson handprints against the porcelain bowl.

This is all just a bad dream. Patrick didn’t— that wasn’t Patrick. That was someone else who _looks_ like Patrick.

He’s going to wake up any second, and when he calls Patrick, Patrick’s going to tell him to hang up because it’s 2 in the morning and he needs sleep. Yeah, Patrick’s fine. Patrick is still sleeping in his own room, on his bed, dreaming away about drums and stages and sold-out arenas.

Patrick is not being carried away into an ambulance. Patrick is not being driven to the emergency room. And Patrick is certainly not bleeding to _death_ from his wrists.

He closes the lid and rests his head on it, his eyes squeezed shut as sobs wrack his entire body. The sour taste of vomit lingers in his mouth, and his head feels dizzy the more tears and sobs escape him.

That’s not Patrick. That can’t be Patrick.

A gentle hand touches his back. He’s sure it’s Mr Way; they’re both the only ones left in the bathroom. Feelings of guilt stab him in the guts. Mr Way’s supposed to go with the paramedics and ride with them to the hospital, but instead, he’s sitting here with him because he’s too... too weak to digest what just happened.

“Brendon, you okay?”

He wipes his nose and face, keeping his breathing steady before nodding to Mr Way’s question. He lifts his head and opens his eyes— and nothing but red fills his vision.

Red on the white porcelain.

Red on the tiled floor.

Red on his hands.

Red on his forearms.

And red on his face.

He opens the lid of the toilet and vomits hard, his chest heaving with each spasm as the stench of puke fills the stale air. Patrick’s blood is everywhere on him. _Patrick’s blood is everywhere on him._

Patrick’s warm blood sticking on his skin, drying and flaking as if it’s trying to mold into his skin.

Everything hurts. His back aches. His throat burns. His eyes sting. His head heavy. His stomach empty.

“Brendon, breathe.” Mr Way rubs his back up and down, his voice soothing, but it fails to calm him down.

Between him retching and crying, he finds it difficult to breathe. Every time he manages to inhale a little air, the smell of puke and blood enter his nostrils, which nauseates him to the point where he heaves again. It’s a painful cycle, and he wants it to end. He wants to get Patrick’s blood off of him. He doesn’t ever want to see the same shade of red on his skin ever again.

As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to see the colour itself ever again.

“—the hospital now. Patrick’s there with the paramedics. No— listen—  Pete, listen, just go there _now._ I’m with Brendon. We’ll be there later, then I’ll explain everything.”

Mr Way must be calling Mr Wentz to inform of the situation. His guilt triples; both of them are supposed to be on their way to the hospital by now.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pulls the flush. He stumbles when he tries to stand up, but thankfully Mr Way is there to hold him. Instead of going to the sink to wash his face and get rid of the taste in his mouth, Mr Way leads him outside and upstairs to his own bathroom.

“Clean yourself up. I’ll get you something to wear.”

Once Mr Way leaves and closes the door, he promptly strips himself off, tossing his clothes on the floor outside the tub, and turns on the shower. He keeps his eyes closed the entire time as water runs down his face and body, refusing to watch the clear water turn red.

He takes a few pumps of the shower gel and slathers it over his body, focusing on his hands and scrubbing until the feeling of blood on his skin disappear. Just thinking about it makes him nauseous.

After he rinses off, he reaches for the towel and dries himself off. He pushes the curtain back to see a set of clothes folded neatly on top of the sink, and he wastes no time putting them on. When he steps out, Mr Way is sitting in the living room, hunched over.

“Uh, Mr Way?” He calls for him as he steps closer.

Mr Way lifts his head, startled, but relaxes when he sees him. Mr Way stands up and grabs his keys. “Do you want me to drop you off at your—”

“Hospital.” He says without hesitation even though his hands are trembling from what they were doused in before. He’s not going to leave Patrick after what happened. “I wanna go to the hospital.”

-

Mr Wentz is already sitting in the waiting room when they arrive, face buried in his hands and hair unkempt. His heart breaks for Mr Wentz and Mr Way; never in their entire lives would they think this would happen.

But it did, and the event and the image still shake him to the core. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking the entire drive to the hospital, and when he looked at Mr Way, his tears kept streaming down since they saw Patrick in the bathroom.

Mr Way walks past him to sit beside Mr Wentz, the latter having to comfort Mr Way as Mr Way explains what happened through his sobs.

Pain tugs at his heartstrings upon seeing the state of the two adults. He’s just a kid, who was barely able to comprehend the incident that just happened and was close to losing a dear _friend._ It’s nothing compared to what Mr Wentz and Mr Way are going through.

They almost lost their _only child._

Why did Patrick do it? Didn’t they just have a discussion about suicide a couple of weeks ago? Did Patrick think that… that it’s _worth_ it?

Oh God, if Patrick had been thinking it all this time, that explains the sudden meet up and the conversation they had last night. Patrick wasn’t talking about leaving the town. Patrick wasn’t talking about cheating on a test or skipping school or going to another party.

Patrick was _ready,_ and his answers only nudged Patrick in that direction when he should have been stopping Patrick from going there _at all._

He looks up when a hand is placed on shoulder, finding tears already rolling on his cheeks. He rubs his eyes with his fists, and out comes an eruption of sobs from his chest.

A pair of arms are wrapped around him, and he lets everything out. The memories from how they first met at school in Math class in sixth grade to how they spent time together at jazz band practices during freshman year of high school flash in his mind, like a movie slowly being played out.

The Patrick in his memories and the Patrick in this hospital are two whole different people. Borderline impossible to be the same person. The Patrick he knows doesn't… he doesn't run away from home. He doesn't have sex while being this young. He doesn't sneak out while still grounded. He doesn't drive without a license and he doesn't go out to a senior party and drink alcohol and smoke weed and—

—and he doesn't attempt to _commit suicide._

He eventually pulls away when his sobs and breathing have calmed down, and he looks up to see Mr Way, eyes glassy and red. “He’s going to be okay. You found him just in time.”

Although Mr Way keeps repeating that Patrick is going to be okay, it sounds more like Mr Way is trying to convince himself more than him. The incident has, no doubt, traumatized both of them, moreso Mr Way.

He only wishes both of them can erase the image out of their minds, especially now that he can’t see anything with the colour red without thinking of it.

Closing his eyes, he drops down to sit next to Mr Wentz, who’s faring not much better than them. Even though Mr Wentz wasn’t there, he looks just as worse.

While all of them linger and pray in the waiting room, his mind keeps wondering on what would happen if—

If he didn’t understand the meaning behind the writings on the wall?

If he just sat down on the bed waiting for Patrick to get back?

If he went to the comic book store anyway because Patrick took too long?

He pulls his knees up and buries his face in his hands as a fresh wave of tears hits him. He almost lost Patrick forever. He _could have_ lost him forever.

-

When the doctor comes out of the emergency room an hour later, Mr Wentz is the first to scramble towards her, followed by Mr Way. He stands behind Mr Way, not paying attention to what the doctor is telling them because he has his attention on something much more important.

In the background, behind the doctor, the door to the emergency room opens, and a few nurses are wheeling a bed out with Patrick on it, laying, unconscious, with a tube hanging from a bag of blood inserted into his inner arm.

His eyes follow the bed until they disappear around the corner, his neck craning to the side to see where they’re going, but they’re already out of his sight.

“—ferring him to the ICU to monitor him, for a day at most, and when his conditions are stable, he will have to be transferred to the psych unit.”

His blood runs cold at the two words. _Psych unit._ Why would Patrick need to be transferred there? Patrick’s _fine._ He’s not— he’s not _crazy._ Patrick’s not crazy! Just because he did _that_ doesn’t mean he’s crazy! He doesn’t need to go to the psych unit!

When the doctor leaves with the promise of keeping them updated, he turns to the two adults, expecting they would object to Patrick being placed in the psych unit because their son is _not_ crazy and start planning on how to get Patrick out of the hospital. Mr Wentz is a good lawyer, so he can pull Patrick out anytime.

Only, the opposite happens. Mr Wentz and Mr Way sit back down on the chairs, heaving similar tired and relieved sighs. He frowns. Why aren’t they angry at the hospital for deciding to put Patrick in the psych unit?

“Why don’t you go first?” Mr Way asks, one hand clasping Mr Wentz’s shoulder, who is visibly tense. Mr Way sounds more calm now than before the doctor came out. “He needs you more than he needs me right now.”

Mr Wentz bites his lip, hesitation written all across his face before he shakes his head, eyes downcast. “I— you should go. I’ll wait here with Brendon.”

With a sigh, Mr Way relents, patting Mr Wentz on the back once and standing up. “I’ll be back soon.”

Once Mr Way disappears behind the door to the ICU, Mr Wentz drags a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering, “tell me this is just a nightmare.”

A lump grows in his throat seeing the state of Mr Wentz. Even though Mr Wentz doesn’t cry like Mr Way did, his voice and body language scream everything. His body slumps like he’s carrying the weight of the universe on his shoulders, eyes like the cracked wall of a dam that holds back an ocean from bursting through, and his voice…

His voice sounds like it’s trying to hold itself together with a thin string.

If Mr Wentz had seen Patrick in the bathtub, he would be much worse than he is now.

“He’s alive.” He hopes what he’s saying is able to comfort Mr Wentz, even a little. Now, he understands how Mr Way felt earlier when he tried to soothe him. “That’s the most important thing, right?”

He’s alive. Patrick’s alive. Patrick’s breathing when he found him in the bathroom, and he’s _still_ breathing when the nurses moved him out of the ER. Patrick’s going to be okay. Patrick’s going to be _fine._

A warm hand settles on his shoulder, and he quickly wipes his tears away. When did he start crying again? “M- Mr Wentz. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mr Wentz murmurs as he stares in the direction of the ICU. “We’re all worried about him, too.”

“Yeah, but—” His mind goes back to the night before, when Patrick was casually having a conversation with him. Patrick, who had been ignoring him and being quiet for more than two weeks, suddenly asked to meet him at the bridge late at night? He should have known something was wrong. He should have said something about it, but he didn’t. “—I was there. I didn’t— I didn’t know he was going to—”

His sentence is cut off with his own sobs. Why didn’t he realize earlier? They learned about mental illnesses and suicide weeks ago, about the symptoms and how to help those in need, but how could he be so _blind?_ How could he not realize Patrick was—

“It’s not your fault, Brendon.” Mr Wentz soothes him, and he rubs his eyes. “None of us saw it coming.”

He brings his hands down, fists clenched. “But I’m his friend! _I_ should have—”

“And I’m his father. How do you think that makes me feel?”

His shoulders drop at Mr Wentz’s answer. “I just didn’t know what made him do it.”

Mr Wentz sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, making it more disheveled than it already is. “I have a feeling he was having a mixed episode.”

Mixed episode? What does it mean?

He must have had a confused look on his face because when Mr Wentz turns to him, Mr Wentz raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

He shakes his head. “Know what?”

For the second time in the span of two minutes, Mr Wentz lets out another sigh as he directs his attention back to the door to the ICU. “I thought he’d tell you about it.”

“Tell me what?” His heart starts to race in anticipation. Is something wrong with Patrick? Did something happen to Patrick? Is Patrick sick like his brother suspected?

When Mr Wentz looks at him, his eyes are filled with sadness and regret. “He’s bipolar.”

His jaw drops without him meaning to, eyebrows shooting up. Shocked is an understatement. He’s blown away by the revelation. He never— he never would have thought Patrick was, _is_ going through such a thing. “I— I didn’t know that.”

What’s worse is, even if he did know, he doesn’t know how to help Patrick.

“Well, he is.” Mr Wentz leans back against the chair and closes his eyes, and for the first time ever, Mr Wentz looks his age. “He was diagnosed with it last summer.”

Last summer? Could that be the reason why they didn’t see each other the entire summer?

“I- I didn’t know. He seemed… he didn’t seem like…” He falls quiet, looking down at the squeaky clean floor. Patrick might have been the same at the beginning of school year, but that was weeks, a couple of months ago.

“But you’ve noticed he’s changed?”

He nods. Patrick’s changed a lot, that he can confidently say. Running away from home? Disobeying his parents? Drinking and smoking? Definitely changed.

Then, realizing something, he looks back to Mr Wentz. “You said Patrick might have a mixed episode.” He starts, “Why did you think that?”

“You really want to know?” Mr Wentz asks him, and he gives a firm nod. He wants to know the signs are so he knows how to help him next time. Patrick’s not going to go through it alone. There’s no way he’ll let him.

Mr Wentz shakes his head and chuckles, though it sounds sad and bitter to his ears. “It’s because I’m bipolar, too. So I know why he acted that way.”

A flashback of when he’s in Patrick’s room hits him. All the writings on the wall, he remembers some of the lines, but they didn’t make much sense then. But now, after Mr Wentz’s revelation, they finally do.

_ill never end up like him_

_behind my back i already am_

Patrick was referring to Mr Wentz.

He remembers the video they were watching weeks ago, about how some mental illnesses are hereditary. Could Patrick have inherited it from Mr Wentz?

“It was my fault, wasn’t it?” Mr Wentz murmurs as he leans forward on his elbows, forehead resting on his fists. “I always hoped and prayed he wouldn’t get it from me.”

His mouth remains sealed, unsure of what to say. The incident has opened his eyes to a different and new insight.

He was wrong to think that people with mental illnesses are crazy, because Mr Wentz and Patrick are clearly not. It makes him wonder if his friends and the other people at school or at church, and even anyone he meets, are the same as Mr Wentz and Patrick. Those who live their lives like normal people, who look and talk and behave like nothing’s wrong despite what’s going on in their brains.

Feelings of guilt grow in his chest, so big that they push tears out of his eyes, and before he knows it, he’s crying and apologizing to Mr Wentz, who, despite his confusion, places a soothing hand on his back.

-

He didn’t get to see Patrick after Patrick was carried to the ICU. Only one visitor is allowed at a time, and after Mr Way got back, Mr Wentz braved himself to walk through the door. Mr Wentz spent longer time in the ICU than Mr Way did, and he couldn’t bring himself to think of what Mr Wentz must have felt seeing his son on the bed, unconscious but alive, and feeling responsible for what happened to him.

If he has to be honest, he does feel responsible, too. _Fully_ responsible. How can he not? Patrick met him the night before and— and he could have said something. He could have prevented Patrick from doing it.

So when Mr Wentz and Mr Way asked him if he wanted to see Patrick, he clammed up. Words stuck in his throat, tongue tied, and he could do nothing except for a pathetic shake of the head. Of course he wanted to see Patrick, but every time he thinks of him, he’s immediately taken back to the bathroom, desperately grasping at Patrick’s wrists as he bled out to the tiles below.

Patrick may be safe and alive, but in his mind, he’s not.

Because with every blink, the only thing he sees is Patrick: pale, bleeding, and lifeless.

-

When he goes to school the next day, deprived of 7 hours of sleep, the whole class is buzzing with news about Patrick’s hospitalization. Although he’s never given it much of a thought, but he sees it coming; most of their friends live in the same neighbourhood as them, so it’s impossible for them to not notice the ambulance outside Patrick’s house yesterday or its blaring siren.

He keeps his head down throughout the day and does his best to ignore all the whispers around him. By recess, almost the entire school knows about Patrick and his trip to the hospital, and he wants nothing more than for everyone to keep their mouths shut. Who are they to talk about Patrick like they know him personally? Like… like they’re friends? Like they know what Patrick has been dealing with?

When school ends, without glancing at anyone, he sprints out of the building and takes the public bus to the hospital. He hasn’t told his parents about Patrick, but his brother…

After Mr Wentz sent him home yesterday, he dropped his bag and ran to his brother’s room, crying silently on the bed until he couldn’t breathe or see anything, until he got too tired to open his eyes that he ended up falling asleep on his brother’s bed.

When he woke up, his brother was sitting up on the bed beside him, his fingers threaded in his hair like he always did to him when they were kids. A gesture of comfort. He wiped his face on the pillow under him, knowing his brother was waiting for him to say something.

 _“You were right.”_ He had said to his brother as his throat bobbed with upcoming tears. _“He’s sick.”_

 _“What happened?”_ His brother’s voice was as calm as ever, never failing to soothe him.

 _“He has bipolar.”_ The tears returned full force. _“And he almost— but I found him, and— and we called the ambulance, and—”_

He doesn’t know how his brother knows, but he had spent the entire night crying on his brother’s bed, and his brother spent the entire night comforting him.

Tears slide down his face before his brain registers it happening, and he pulls his backpack to his face to hide his tears. Just thinking about Patrick already makes him a mess; how would he fare when he sees Patrick?

Mr Wentz is already at the hospital when he arrives, lingering in the ICU lounge among several other people. Mr Way is already inside visiting Patrick, and his nerves double.

Is he ready to see Patrick again?

He sits down beside Mr Wentz, pulling off his backpack to place it in his lap and checking his watch. Office hour isn’t over yet, so either Patrick’s parents took half a day off or the entire day off. Judging from the casual outfit Mr Wentz is wearing, he’s guessing the latter.

He clears his throat. “Is Patrick okay?”

“He’s awake.” Mr Wentz nods, his face full of relief compared to yesterday. “The doctor’s going to move him to psych unit soon.”

His body tenses. There it is again. Psych unit. Why doesn’t Mr Wentz do anything about it? “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know…” He shrugs and looks down while picking at his fingernail, shy and tentative at what he’s going to say. “Take him home? He’s fine, right? So, he doesn’t need to be at the hospital.”

From the corner of his eyes, Mr Wentz shifts in his seat and sighs. “I would, but it’s better this way. Trust me.”

He whips his head in anger, facing Mr Wentz with his hands clenched into tight fists. “It’s not. Patrick _hates_ the hospital. You can’t keep him in here, especially not in psych unit! He’s not— Patrick’s not—”

“Crazy?” Mr Wentz finishes his sentence, and his mouth snaps shut at the look on Mr Wentz’s face. Mr Wentz doesn’t seem mad, but there is a dry smile on his lips. Ashamed, he settles back in his seat, whispering apology.

“Bipolar doesn’t make someone crazy,” Mr Wentz says, his voice tired like he’s said it too many times before. Has it happened a lot? People thinking that people with bipolar are… and then Mr Wentz having to explain it? “And being in psych unit doesn’t mean they’re crazy.”

Shame courses through him. The church preaches a lot about being kind and fair to everyone, but him—a member of the church—did just the opposite. “Sorry…”

“Psych unit actually helps them to get better. I know Patrick might hate it because of the constant surveillance, but it does. The staff will make sure he’s safe, and he’ll meet a lot of people who are like him, who _understand_ him.” then, Mr Wentz’s face softens. “And he’ll be fine, I know it. Maybe not now, but he will.”

Hearing Mr Wentz like this, hopeful and positive, it makes him feel the same. Mr Wentz said it himself—that he has bipolar too—so he must have gone through the same thing. If Mr Wentz is positive that everything will be okay, then he will hold the same belief. He wants to be as strong as Mr Wentz so Patrick can lean on him.   

And perhaps he should start getting rid of his toxic thinking. It’s everything against what his religion, church, and parents have been teaching him since he was still a kid.

He looks up when the door swings open, Mr Way walking out with a small smile directed at him. “Do you want to see him? He’s awake.” Mr Way asks him.

“Can I?” he asks back, nerves hitting him like before. What if Patrick doesn’t want to see him?

“Of course you can.” Mr Wentz stands up and ruffles his hair, his face now having a light expression. “He would love to see another familiar face besides his parents.”

Jittery, he trails after Mr Wentz after heaving his backpack on his shoulder. As Mr Wentz leads him inside the ICU, his brain tries to come up with words to say to Patrick. What would be considered okay and not offensive? Should he act like he didn’t know what happened, or like he didn’t _see_ what happened?

Should he act normal and pretend that he has no clue about Patrick’s bipolar?

“I’ll wait out here.” Mr Wentz’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and his steps slow down to a stop as he reaches Patrick’s room. He peeks in through the window, where he sees Patrick resting on his bed, an IV on his inner elbow, both his wrists bandaged.

Biting his lip, he pushes the door open and the memories out of his mind. Patrick is staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising ever so slow in deep breaths.

“H- hey, how are you?”

Patrick eyes land on him, face stoic and expressionless. When Patrick doesn’t say anything, he clears his throat and moves to sit on the chair beside the bed, his backpack dropped on the floor. “I, um, I heard. About— bipolar, I mean. It’s okay.”

Patrick’s face falters for a split second, and he takes that as a good sign. Maybe Patrick didn’t expect for him to know. Or he did, but didn’t expect the calm reaction. Scooting the chair closer, he places his hand on the bed. “You’re going to be okay again, I swear. They’ll give you medications and some therapy and—”

He closes his mouth, sentence trailing off when Patrick shakes his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“But your dads will help. The doctors will, too.” He pauses for a beat, voice becoming quieter and softer, “a- and I’m gonna help you too.”

When Patrick flicks his gaze up to him, his heart stops and beats fast at the same time. For the first time, he finally sees how empty and cold Patrick’s eyes are. “What if I don’t want help?”

What if Patrick doesn’t want help?

He swallows the lump in his throat, growing nervous and uneasy at the question. “O- of course you do. You want to get better, don’t you?”

Patrick shakes his head once, breaking their eye-contact, and murmurs, “I just want everything to stop.”

“It will.” He assures, though he himself is not sure. He’s never had to deal with this before. He doesn’t know the right thing to say. He doesn’t know what’s appropriate and what’s not. He just says whatever it is that can help Patrick. Hopefully he’s on the right track. “It will stop if you get help.”

“Just— don’t talk like you know everything. Getting help doesn’t magically heal everything.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try.”

Patrick’s eyes meet his again, but this time it’s hot and cold at the same time. “Remember those picnics I always mentioned? Those are trips to the therapist. The vitamins? My medications. Look at where I end up right now. You still think they help?”

Memories of how Patrick would miss class rush into his mind, and everything makes sense to him now, more than ever. He feels stupid for ignoring every sign that Patrick showed before.

“Sorry.” He ducks his head, guilty and ashamed. “But, you know, suicide is— it’s not the way to go.”

“Right. Because you know everything.” Patrick states in a monotone voice, sending knives of guilt straight to his heart.

“Patrick.” He sighs, gingerly placing his hand on Patrick’s and trying not to look at the bandages wrapped around both Patrick’s wrists. When Patrick doesn’t move his hand, he clasps his hand with Patrick’s. “You’re right. I don’t know everything, but what I do know is that your parents are going to miss you.”

He swallows all the nerves at what he’s about to say. “And I’m going to miss you. More than you think.”

Patrick gives him a look—eyes squinted in suspicion, as if he’s judging whether he’s speaking the truth—and relents with much hesitation. It saddens him; how can Patrick not believe his words?

He shoots a quick glance to the door to see if Mr Wentz is watching them. When Mr Wentz is looking in another direction, he leans down, pressing a light kiss to Patrick’s head. “I mean it,” he murmurs as he squeezes Patrick’s hand, “I don’t want to lose you. And you don’t want to lose me too, right? That’s why you asked to meet me that night.”

Patrick doesn’t reply him, but the look on his face tells him enough.

“And I was stupidly telling you to go for it, wasnt I?”

“It was my decision.” Patrick mumbles before silence falling over them. It’s not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. “Do you think I’m crazy yet?”

“What?”

“I’m sure you know by now that I’m bipolar. The whole school probably knows about it by now.” Patrick breathes out a dry laugh. “Patrick Stump, the crazy bipolar kid who tried to commit suicide and failed.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Are you scared of me?”

“I’m not.” He is, a little. But not of Patrick. He's scared of what's going to happen to them.

“Do you hate me now?”

“I would never hate you.”

The bitter smile on Patrick’s face breaks his heart into pieces. “Stop lying. You said you hated people who committed suicide, even if they’re your friends.”

“I didn’t— Patrick, I wasn’t—” he chokes on the painful lump in his throat, guilt engulfing him with each breath he takes. “I would _never_ —”

He would _never_ hate Patrick.

“I could never hate you.” He whispers, one hand rubbing the tears from his eyes. He’s pissed. He’s pissed at himself for being so ignorant and so condescending in the class. He’s pissed that he said it in Patrick’s face so casually when Patrick is… when his own best friend is…

He opens his eyes, tears filling to the brim that they glide down his face, when Patrick holds his hand, eyes inquiring into his.

He wants to laugh. He was supposed to console Patrick, not the other way around. He couldn’t have felt more pathetic than right this second. Patrick’s gone through so much all on his own and yet— and yet his friend has to comfort him. He had been so ignorant to everything, to how Patrick had acted, to what he said about people with mental illnesses, who committed suicide. He was stupid. All his life, he was taught the value of loving others, forgiving others, and not judging them, and yet he judged anyway.

The worst thing is, he judged his own best friend without even knowing it, and he stated it right in front of his best friend’s face.

“Sorry.” He finally says after his tears have stopped, but the lump in his throat doesn’t seem to go away. He drops his hand, breathing in deep to calm himself down. “I’m sorry for earlier. I’m sorry for not— for not realizing. You were right. I’m a bad friend and a shitty person.”

Patrick lets go of his hand and lies back down on the bed, eyes gazing up at the ceiling, distant and faraway. “Aren’t we all?”

Even though they’re just teens, but the dull glimmers in Patrick’s eyes seem as if they had experienced forty, fifty years into the future. Like everything he had gone through had stripped him off all of his fire and passion and spirit. Everything that made him the person he is.

Swallowing down the lump, he opens his mouth and speaks in a whisper, knowing his voice will break if he speaks any louder, “Can I be honest?”

“What?” Patrick asks, not even giving him a glance.

“I don’t know what to do.” He states, blunt and clear while being a ball of nerves. He wants to redeem himself. Wants to get rid of his self-righteous side. Wants to be a better person, for himself and for Patrick. “I want to be there for you, but I don’t know what to do. So, will you tell me what you need when you have another, uh, episode?”

The few seconds of silence that Patrick gives him is nerve-wracking. Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. “You really are cute.”

He flushes at Patrick’s comment. “I’m serious. Will you?”

“That’s more than enough.” Patrick sighs and closes his eyes, snuggling back into his blanket. “Being there for me like you have all this time. That’s all I ask for. You don’t even have to do anything.”

When Patrick closes his eyes, it’s like he’s taken back to that fateful day. It made him realize one thing: he doesn’t want to lose out on life. He doesn’t want to live his wondering all the _what-ifs_ and what could have been.

“Patrick.” He whispers. “Can I tell you something?”

“What is it?”

“I—” He licks his lips. He's really doing this, isn't he? “I really like you. I really do. Like, more than friends.”

Patrick stares at him, unblinking and unresponsive, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He wipes the sweat off his palm on the bedsheet. “I, uh— just thought you should know. You— you don’t have to like me back. I’m cool with us just being fr—”

He stops himself when Patrick holds his hand tighter, their fingers intertwined. No words are exchanged, but the look in Patrick’s eyes says enough. He used to hear a lot about how _eyes are the window to the soul,_ but he never understood what it meant.

Until now.

His mouth closes to form a bashful smile as he glances downwards at his lap, hand squeezing Patrick’s.

Mr Wentz walk into the room, and he—reluctantly—releases his hand from Patrick’s to stand up and give his seat to him.

Mr Wentz shakes his head. “Visiting hour’s almost over.”

Sad, he nods before taking his bag, then turns to Patrick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A small flicker of emotion in Patrick's eyes—dull as they may be, they're still the prettiest he's ever seen—tells him that Patrick's holding on to his word. They've known each other long enough to know what the other _isn't_ saying.

So, come hell or high water, he'll see Patrick again and again for an eternity of tomorrows.

-

Once they're in the car, he grips at the seatbelt, teeth chewing on his lower lip out of habit. “Patrick’s going to be okay, right?”

Mr Wentz is going back to his office to work overnight, catching up with his day work, so Mr Way is the one who sends him back. Mr Way sighs after a brief moment of silence, save for the rumbling sound of the engine. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Not exactly the answer I was looking for.” He mutters as he sinks lower into his seat, face buried in his backpack.

“Out of all of us, Pete's probably the only one who understands what he's going through,” Mr Way says. “Sometimes I do feel a little left out because they have such a close bond with each other.”

“Mr Wentz did tell me he's like Patrick. Or that Patrick's like him.”

“Yeah.” Mr Way nods, but his voice sounds sad. “It's hard to see them not as close now.”

He whips his head to look at Mr Way, shocked. Aside from being Patrick's dad, Mr Wentz is practically like, his _best friend_ . Just last year, Patrick had worked part-time at a crappy dinner just so he could have enough money to buy Mr Wentz a birthday present. And it's nothing like those cheap _#1 Dad_ merchandise either. “They're not?”

“Ever since Patrick was diagnosed, he's been blaming Pete for it.” Mr Way’s voice sounds cracked, but he keeps quiet and pretends he doesn't hear it. It must have been hard for Mr Way to talk about it. “It was horrible, but it got worse when we forced him to take his meds. Pete held him down once, but it left marks on his wrists.”

That explains the bruises around Patrick’s wrists that day.

“Pete was so guilty about it. We didn’t mean to hurt him, but I guess to him, it meant otherwise.” Mr Way then lets out a heavy sigh as they come to a stop in front of a red light. “He never talked to Pete since then. We’ve tried everything to mend their relationship, but…”

Mr Way trails off with a shake off his head. He frowns, hugging his backpack—the one that Patrick said is cool because it's in his favourite colour—closer to his chest. Would Patrick and Mr Wentz be like how they used to after what happened?

Now he finally understands why Patrick has been so cold with Mr Wentz during early school year. If only he paid more attention, if only he'd ask Patrick about it instead of shrugging it off as something trivial…

“I'm sorry.” He finds himself apologizing a lot of times in one day. “If only I talked to him, then maybe I can help. Maybe I can prevent all of that from happening.”

“Hey.” Mr Way calls him, and he looks up at him, curious. “You’re a good kid. For what it's worth, I'm glad he has you in his life.

“Thank you for looking out for him all this time.” Mr Way continues, the corner of his lips quirking up into a small smile as he glances at him. “I know he's been hard to take care of lately, but we really appreciate it. Patrick appreciates it, too.”

Then, Mr Way focuses back on the road in front. “If it were anyone else, I'm sure they'd have given up on Patrick a long time ago.”

“I won't give up on him.”

It's a promise— one that he will forever keep to his grave. As long as he's breathing, he will give Patrick a reason to live.

**Author's Note:**

> i've always wanted to write about a mental illness from an outsider's pov, like how would a person view it without knowing anything about it. i think it went pretty good?
> 
> so, this is probably going to be my last fic for a while. i'm starting grad school soon and i need to focus on that. but i'll try to write anything i can, especially parenthood au!
> 
> kudos and comments? :)


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